


You Make Me Shiver and Shake

by Stargazing121



Series: You Make Me Shiver and Shake [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comedy, F/M, Falling In Love, Love, Malfoy and Granger Shenanigans, POV Hermione Granger, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazing121/pseuds/Stargazing121
Summary: Draco is an artistic genius, Hermione a budding art agent. But once they start to work together, will they be able to resist the growing attraction between them?“I’m not going to take you on as an art client!” Hermione scoffed.“Why not Granger,” he said. His tone was silky, like the sound of fine cloth running through your hands. “You know there has always been something between us.”“That won’t work on me,” she answered flatly.“Ok, I admit that was pushing it.” He shrugged, “But pushing against beautiful women is what I do best Granger.”“Not that either.”“Damn it, I forgot that trying to flirt with you was like flirting with a slug. Actually, I think I’d get more luck with the slug.”“You’d make a lovely couple. You’re certainly as slippery,” Hermione said.“I can think of someone I would rather form a partnership with,” he said, his voice low and almost a whisper.





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione’s steps faltered at the entrance to the gallery. She couldn’t believe she was attending Draco Malfoy’s first art exhibit, voluntarily.   
Large steel pillars bisected the room, lifting her eyes to the vaulted ceiling and large skylights above. The thin light of evening trickled into the gallery, tinting the paintings blue. The gallery was maze like, paintings hung on temporary walls which seemed to have been constructed at random.   
Hermione felt the back of her neck. It was moist from the crowded tube. She did her best to smooth her hair with her hands and straightening her skirt, moved into the room.   
The gallery was busy, but the high ceilings made the voices echo back making the crowd seem as if it was much bigger. She tried to scan the paintings between the heads of the moving crowd. Noting a few familiar faces in the industry she nodded and smiled, but tried to keep her pace so she would not be held up.   
Hermione was not happy to be here. After a long day of work, her boss Sirius Black, had requested that she attend this showcase of some little known artist. He said he was meant to go himself, as some favour for a distant relative, but he had another appointment. Unfortunately, this little known artist happened to be Malfoy, her main rival at college and scourge of most of the female population of London for the past twenty something years.   
Unlike Malfoy, she’d had to abandon her dreams of forging a career in the art world. While it was a stroke of luck to land a job at Black and Sons Gallery, one of the most prestigious contemporary galleries in London, it stung to be at the show of one of her peers. Even if the gallery was situated in a backstreet loft with painted chip wood as walls.  
Distractedly, Hermione hurried to a gap in the crowds by a large painting on the back wall.   
The canvas was a squat rectangle that confused the eye; too long to be a square, but too short to be a regular rectangle. The picture was a portrait of a nude woman haloed by pastel coloured flowers, leaves and vines. Delicate brush strokes locked the woman’s face into the picture, as Malfoy had been caressing the canvas as well as painting it. The woman’s expression was one of pleasure, eye lids heavy and lips parted as if sighing.   
Hermione found her gaze concentrating on the woman’s slender neck and collar bones, the lines of her body were so beautifully smooth and fervidly depicted.   
“What do you think?”   
Hermione started at the voice, lost in the painting. She turned, a smile already plastered to her lips. Her smile faltered on seeing who was there. The man behind her was tall, long blond hair dripping down his shoulders falling in dishevelled waves. His face was angular, made of hard lines and jagged cheekbones.  
Draco Malfoy.   
Hermione felt the blush crawl up her face, embarrassed to have been caught gazing at his picture, particularly a picture of a women obviously in the throws of passion. Knowing his reputation probably his passion.  
“She was a beautiful creature,” Malfoy said, a sly grin playing around his lips.   
“One of your conquests I suppose?” Hermione jibed.  
“Maybe Granger.” He gave a low chuckle. “What brings you to my little artistic showcase? I don’t remember your name being on the guest list.”  
“My boss asked me to attend on his behalf,” she explained. She could still feel the blush lingering on her cheeks.   
“And who do you work for, Granger?”  
Hermione wordlessly passed him a business card. She took a great delight in seeing Malfoy’s eyes widen as he read the name of the gallery she worked for.   
“Black and Sons Gallery,” Draco read out.   
He gave a low whistle. “Well Granger, I underestimated you. In college, I always presumed you’d work for an insignificant gallery that only took on art that looked like it had been spewed on.”  
Hermione clenched her fists. She would not rise to the bait. She was a professional art agent now.   
“You were wrong.”  
“My, you have changed,” he drawled. “Well, only in some ways.” His grey eyes cast a long look over her, hovering on her frizzed hair and crumpled blouse.  
Hermione sighed through her teeth, making a hissing noise.   
“Your technique has improved,” she said, trying to be civil and nodded at portrait in front of them.  
“Oh, it has Granger. It has,” Draco agreed, his voice husky and suggestive.   
“You’re still such a ferret Malfoy!”  
His eyes flashed, like thunder over a stormy sea.   
“Granger I am many things: to some a god, to others merely the most pleasurable night of their lives. But one thing I am not is a ferret. Goodness knows how that ridiculous nickname got started in college.”  
Hermione smiled. She knew, she was the one to come up with it.  
“How are you liking my show?   
“Good to see you’ve been branching out in your subject matter since college,” she commented, her eyes rolling over the nude paintings.   
“What can I say Granger, I don’t have to look far for material,” he winked.  
“The flowers are nice.”  
“Other parts of the painting are nice too. I enjoyed painting them greatly.”  
“You are still a letch Malfoy.”  
“As are you Granger. I saw the way you were looking at the painting, you couldn’t take your eyes off her,” he quietly muttered.   
“Draco! Darling!” A shrill and horribly familiar voice shouted.   
Hermione whipped her head round to see Rita Skeeter, a snake in human form, flouncing over. Her lurid blond curls bouncing with each step of her heeled shoes and waving her long nailed hands in the air.   
“Such an awful pleasure to see you Rita,” Draco said. Giving Hermione a pained look as he accepted a kiss from Rita, his jaw brushing against her bulbous one.   
“And you Draco! I see you’ve met Miss Granger,” Rita said nastily, eyeing Hermione like a chipped nail.  
“Yes,” Draco interrupted before Hermione could reply, “Hermione was invited here as my personal guest. We’re old college chums, go back years.”  
Rita’s smile faltered, but just for a second.   
Hermione goggled at Malfoy. It must be a real testament to how much Draco disliked Rita that he was sticking up for her, for her!  
“I hope, Rita, that I will be seeing a nice spread of my work in your paper.” Draco said, raising his eyebrows and giving Rita a charming smile. Well, Hermione would have said charming if she hadn’t seen him pull that smile out every time he was late for a lecture in college. Malfoy certainly knew how to be appealing when he wanted to be.  
“‘Course Draco,” Rita smiled like a crocodile, “but my readers will want a bit of a personal touch to the story. How is your love life these days? Still breaking a different heart each morning? Everyone loves a rebel Draco.”  
“I have to find new inspiration for my work Rita.”   
“I can’t imagine you finding that with Miss Granger for company,” Rita said, throwing back her head laughing, her gold and yellow teeth gnashing.   
“On the contrary Rita,” Malfoy replied, his eyes a frosty silver, “Miss Granger has many charming features and assets many would want to put on paper.”  
Rita’s smile cracked, and a hateful expression took over her features.   
“If you will excuse us Rita,” and before Hermione could protest, Malfoy was steering her away. His hand grasping her elbow firmly but not in a painful manner.  
Nodding at familiar faces, he skirted her around the crowd till they reached a quieter painting. At the painting he stopped, it was another of a woman, but unlike the previous painting, the colours were bold hues of red and gold. The woman was, amazingly, clothed in lose cloth and seemed to be dancing. However, Malfoy had cut her partner from the scene, leaving the woman alone with her arms poised and the fabric of her dress fluttering around her. Hermione felt that the painting was on pause, as if the music would start up once more and the woman start to rhythmically move again.   
“Granger, you’re going to take me on as a client,” Draco stated, taking hold of her other arm caging her in his grip.  
“What?” Hermione asked, genuinely sure she had misheard him. Since the altercation with Rita his change in manner was startling.   
“A client at Black and Sons Gallery.”  
“I’m not going to take you on as a client!” Hermione scoffed.   
“Why not Granger,” he said. His tone was silky, like the sound of fine cloth running through your hands. “You know there has always been something between us.”  
“That won’t work on me,” she answered flatly.  
“Ok, I admit that was pushing it.” He shrugged, “But pushing against beautiful women is what I do best Granger.”  
“Not that either.”  
“Damn it, I forgot that trying to flirt with you was like flirting with a slug. Actually, I think I’d get more luck with the slug.”  
“You’d make a lovely couple. You’re certainly as slippery,” Hermione said.  
“I can think of someone I would rather form a partnership with,” he said, his voice low and almost a whisper.   
Hermione suddenly became very aware of Malfoy’s proximity to her. The heat of his body, the feel of his hands holding her arms.   
“Malfoy, I am not going to be your manager! You would be an awful client to handle.”  
He frowned at her, but pivoted so they were facing his painting. He moved closer to her, so that with his height, they would both be looking at the painting from the same vantage point.  
“Granger,” his mouth was a hairs breath from her ear, “how does my work make you feel?”  
Hermione could suddenly see herself as the woman in the painting: the beat of the music coursing through her blood, causing her muscles to bunch for the next dance move. Her hand outstretched for her partner’s, sure in the fact the he would lead her every move.   
“I need to know,” he softly spoke. Hermione imagined that she could hear a small plea in his voice.   
“Alive, Draco. They make me feel alive,” she admitted, breaking eye contact and looking down at where his hands held her.  
The spell was broken.  
Malfoy let her arms go and he hastily stepped back, like he’d received an electric shock.   
“Good,” he said, facing her again, “I’ll call your office in the morning to discuss a contract.”  
His pupils were large and dark, like the colour of the ocean depths and just as fathomless.   
“We’ll see Malfoy,” Hermione said, managing to keep her voice level.  
Before he could reply she swiftly turned, and retraced her steps to the gallery’s entrance. She fancied she could feel his grey eyes on her all the way.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione went into Sirius Black’s office holding a coffee and wearing a smile.   
“Hello Hermione, that coffee is a welcome sight,” Sirius said, taking the coffee and gesturing for her to sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk. “How was the showcase last night?”  
Hermione’s smile became a little strained as she thought over her encounter with Malfoy, and him thinking of her his agent when she could not remember agreeing to be.   
“It was fine,” she lied.   
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure, your face says otherwise.” He smiled at her, his brown eyes flecked with concern. His black hair was pulled back in a stubby pony tail, the hair near his temple was black, now tuning to dark grey.   
Hermione gratefully sunk into the cracked leather chair and ran a hand through her hair, pulling curls out of the bun she’d painstakingly created this morning.   
“No, it was odd,” she admitted.  
“Was the artist’s work as awful as that show last month, you remember, the one with the potatoes?”   
“Oh gosh no,” Hermione still shuddered at the artist’s impression of the potato royal family. “The artist was good, very good in fact.” She admitted begrudgingly.   
“Really?” Sirius seemed surprised. “I was suspecting the artist from last night would be a bit of a dud. He’s my second nephew once or twice removed, or something. Anyway, it was a favour for my sister. You know the one,” he did a mime of manic hair, she giggled, “but if you say he’s talented I will take your word for it.”  
“That’s good, because he thinks I’m his manager now.”  
“It wasn’t your wisest move agreeing to that on a first meeting.”  
“It wasn’t our first meeting. We went to college together. He’s a prat but undeniably a genius with a brush. He’s calling this morning to discuss details.”  
“I want to see samples of his work before we sign him, make sure he brings his portfolio when he comes in for the contract signing.” Sirius sternly said. “I am trusting your judgement on this one Hermione, he’s your responsibility.”  
Hermione gulped. The thought of being responsible for Draco Malfoy was a daunting one.   
“Yes sir.”  
Hermione slunk out of the office, closing the door softly behind her.   
All morning, Hermione jumped each time the phone rang. She knocked her empty coffee mug over, dropped her paperweight (a large rock with a copy of the Birth of Venus on it) onto her foot and she went to the kitchen three times for a cup of tea and forgot each time, eventually giving up and sticking to water. She was not currently in a state to be trusted to make a proper cup of tea.   
By the time 11 O’Clock came around, she was a bag of nerves. At 11:30 am , she was tapping her nails. But by 11:50 am , Hermione was getting impatient. What did he mean he’d call in the morning, there was only ten more minutes of the morning left. Resolving to take lunch if there was not phone call by 12 pm, she tried to get back to work.  
At 11:58 am the phone rang. She answered on the third ring.   
“Hello, Black and Sons Gallery. This is Miss Granger’s speaking.”  
“Granger, your schoolmarm voice is what a man needs to hear in the morning to deal with morning wood,” Malfoy drawled down the line. Hermione could practically hear his smirk.   
“Malfoy, I will hang up the phone if you continue to use vulgar phraseology.”  
“What about vulgar language?”  
“That too,” she clipped in response.  
He laughed down the phone, a low rumbled that she could feel in her toes.   
“Alright, I’m sorry Granger. If it makes it better I was saying morning to Wood.”  
“Excuse me!”   
“There is a chap here, called Wood. Oliver Wood. Makes it darn confusing saying morning to him. Goodness Granger, you didn’t think I was talking about my morning erection did you? Mind in the gutter.” He paused, and Hermione heard the chatter of male voices in the background.  
“What do you mean morning! It’s midday!”  
“Pardon Granger I wasn’t listening, I was having a scolding from Wood. He’s telling me to be less of a twat.”  
“Indeed,”  
“You don’t give an inch do you Granger?”  
Hermione remained silent.  
“Granger? Granger?”  
“Yes,” she spat. “Get on with it Malfoy, I have a lot of work to do.”  
“Very well Granger. It’s about me letting you be my manger”  
“You’re most certainly not letting me! I never even-“ but she was interrupted.  
“Trifles Granger. What’s important is that you are now my manager. No matter which party asked who,” Draco said, placatingly.  
“Fine Malfoy, as your manager I demand you come down to the office with your portfolio,” Hermione said, in her most commanding voice.   
“Demand! Now that was not a good exhibition of management skills Granger. However, I will, this time, acquiesce your commands.”   
Hermione put her head in her free hand, the phone hung limply from the other.   
“Granger? What work should I bring? This is something I need some guidance on, as your are my manager please do guide.”  
Hermione fixed the phone back to her ear.  
“What are you currently working on?” She asked, keeping her tone calm like she would with an errant toddler.   
“Men.” Draco simply replied.  
Taken back, Hermione hesitated before asking, “what men?”  
“Oliver.”  
Hermione heard a loud bang on the line, and more male shouting in the background.   
“Oliver is my male model. I’m branching out you see. Not just naked women now, but naked Oliver as well. Only Oliver mind.”  
She heard more shouting, the voice seemed to be coming nearer Malfoy and the phone. Hermione couldn’t understand much, but she could tell there was swearing. Then, there was the unexpected clunk of the phone being dropped.  
“Ouch!” Malfoy suddenly shouted, his voice audible enough for the dropped phone to pick it up clearly.  
There was a scrabble and Malfoy was on the line again.   
“Sorry Granger, Oliver is not my model. He’s my fitness trainer. He had told me to tell you he’s sculpting me into something worth looking at, apparently,” Draco sulky explained.   
“Malfoy, listen to this because I am hanging up after I say it. Are you listening?” Hermione waited for a response.   
“Yes Granger.”  
“Bring whatever you consider to be your signature pieces. Be here at 3 O’Clock. 3 O’Clock. That is three hours away. Understand.”  
“Yes, but Granger-“  
She slammed the phone down, cutting the line instantly.   
What had she agreed too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the Kudos! Kudos and constructive comments always welcome. Feel free to ask me questions. :D
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	3. Chapter 3

After breaking for lunch, 1 and 2 O’Clock seemed to fly past. But, the nerves she’d felt this morning waiting for Malfoy’s call began to creep back as 3 pm approached on the clock. Her eyes kept flickering between the gallery’s entrance and Sirius’ office door.  
At 3:55 pm, Hermione quietly knocked on Sirius’ door.  
“Come.” Sirius answered. On seeing it was her he continued, “how did the meeting with your old college buddy go?”  
“He should be here in five minutes, but as he’s an artist he may not have a track of time.”  
“Fine, just show him in when he arrives.”  
Hermione gave a relieved smile.  
She was about to shut the door when there was a loud knock and crash from outside the gallery. Looking through the gallery’s large front window Hermione was astounded to see a large statue of a nude young woman by the door. You could tell it was a young woman, there was no mistaking her for anything else.  
Behind the nude statue was a large van which had several wrapped canvases propped against it. Two large men were lugging another statue out of the back of the van.  
Hermione rushed out, she knew they did not have a delivery booked for today.  
“Hello! Sorry but what who are you delivering for?” She asked one of the men.  
“It’s for Black and Sons Gallery,” replied the large man. He had a dull, dim expression and one nostril was running. He wiped it on his sleeve.  
“But we are not expecting a delivery today. I won’t sign for it.”  
“It is already signed for.”  
“What, who,” there was a definite note of panic in her voice now. The second statue was out of the van, it was another unmistakable young woman.  
The big guy just jerked his thumb at the van’s open doors.  
Draco Malfoy was standing by the back of the van, wearing a coal black suit and open collar white shirt. He was waving his arms dramatically, and calling instructions to the two van drivers.  
“Malfoy! What are you doing,” she shouted, stalking over with her arms crossed over her chest.  
“Good afternoon my manager,” he greeted, curling his hand in a mock salute. “Do you like my portfolio? I am especially proud of this statue,” he gestured to one of the female nude statues, “it was such a chore to spend day after day sculpting another beautiful nude woman. I was quite flat out by the end.”  
“Only quite!” She couldn’t help herself. “What do you mean this is your portfolio? This is a whole season of artwork, not a snippet of your work.”  
“I quote Granger, you said bring your ‘signature’ work. Well all these beauties are my signature work. Now, don’t fuss so, show me to your big boss.”  
He took her arm and practically dragged her into the gallery.  
“Malfoy let go!” She said, trying to pull out of his grip. “I don’t need to be escorted into my own gallery.”  
“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do Granger. You are after all, a woman, even if you act like a raging rhino most of the time.”  
“A rhino!”  
“At least you don’t disagree with the raging bit.”  
“Malfoy, I swear to-“  
Hermione was interrupted with the arrival of Sirius, his expression one of concern when seeing her and Malfoy.  
“Hermione! What is going on?” Sirius asked. He gave Malfoy a look like he’d seen more impressive things crawl out of muddy ponds.  
“The charming Miss Granger was just showing me around. I am Draco Malfoy, your new resident artistic genius. I believe we are related” Draco announced.  
“Only distantly related. And we’ll have to see about the genius bit. If you are related to me then the genius bit is unlikely,” Sirius drolly replied.  
“I do apologise Sirius,” Hermione piped in, “Draco has taken my instructions a bit too literally. He’s brought rather a large collection of work for you to survey.”  
“You do like to painting a lot of nude women,” was Sirius’ first comment on seeing the mountains of Malfoy’s work on the pavement.  
“I find I am most inspired when looking at a beautiful woman. That’s why I just had to have Granger as my manager.”  
Hermione scoffed at that.  
“But, as I was telling Miss Granger this morning, I am expanding my horizons and am looking at a lot more naked men now.”  
“Just looking mind.” Hermione added under her breath.  
“This piece is quite exceptional, the abstract realism,” Sirius commented, as he pulled out a canvas of a young woman with a 1920s haircut and dress.  
“That one has a companion piece,” Malfoy held out a painting of another woman in what seemed like Victorian fashion, “I was looking at different ideas of femininity from past ages. These two contrast each other with one as the modern flapper and the other as the ideal woman, somewhat holding onto the Victorian ideas of modesty. Modesty, being something I greatly disagree with.”  
Hermione was surprised. She knew Malfoy had talent with a paintbrush, but she’d never taken him as someone with retrospective thoughts. Or any thought at all. At college he’d been shallow with the occasional flash of brilliance, not that she was going to let him know that. His ego did not need feeding more.  
“And this piece,” Sirius said, addressing Draco, “I appreciate your choice of surrealism in the background and the almost heightened realism in the foreground.”  
Draco waved his hand airily, “There is a chance I was high when coming up with that.”  
Hermione tried to turn her laugh into a cough, but she didn’t think Sirius was fooled.  
“But seriously Sirius,” Draco cracked a child like smile, “will you do me the honour of having me?”  
Sirius looked at Hermione. “Do you think you can handle him?”  
Hermione jabbed Malfoy in the ribs, she just knew he was going to interrupt with some phrasing of “she can handle me all right”.  
Sirius smiled, “I can see you are already somewhat able to handle him. Fine I’ll sign him, but on six months probation. I want to see your work selling.”

Six months Later 

Hermione breezed into Malfoy’s studio. The studio was a loft conversion, situated on the edge of Camden. The loft’s ceiling was high and a railed balcony ran in a border around the room, a spiral staircase curled up the wall allowing access to the balcony. Thick wooden beams ran across the triangular roof, giving the room an impression of a rustic barn.  
Although not as central as Hermione would have liked his studio to be, Malfoy insisted that Camden market supplied London’s greatest amount of impressionable young women. Hermione had put her foot down on that and insisted he only have professionally paid models from now on. The last thing she wanted was a scandal hanging around her client.  
“Malfoy, where are you? I’ve brought your coffee order you so kindly texted me.” Why was she always bring people coffee?  
“Up here Granger,” Malfoy shouted.  
She stopped dead when she saw where he was shouting from.  
“Get down Draco!”  
“I’m fine Granger, don’t get you knickers in a twist. Or do, I won’t mind.”  
“Draco, being twenty feet off the ground suspended by what seems to be knotted bedsheets is not fine!” Hermione yelled, rushing over to stand under him.  
Malfoy was hanging high up in the air and clinging onto a very knotted robe which he’d tied to one of the wooden beams. His bare paint-stained feet were perched in a couple of robe loops, he shuffled occasionally readjusting his balance.  
“I’m trying to get a feeling for the found man. You know, climbing out of a girls room when her chap arrives home early.” Malfoy explained, seeming to think this perfectly rational.  
“Why?”  
“It’s for my art Granger, you wouldn’t understand,” he replied, loftily.  
“Get down now!” Hermione yelled, and to her shame, stamped her foot.  
Draco began to swing, building momentum like a trapeze artist. The rope was swinging in a wide arc almost hitting the loft’s upper balcony.  
“Draco!” Hermione shouted.  
Suddenly Draco reached out a hand and caught the balcony’s rail, stopping the rope’s swing. Lifting a long leg, he flipped over the balcony’s rail and landed safely on the other side.  
Malfoy lifted his arms and gave her a shallow bow.  
Hermione could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She was surprised she couldn’t hear its beats.  
“What do you think you were doing?” She yelled, rounding on him as he sauntered down the spiral staircase.  
“Just some light exercise Granger.”  
“You could have died!”  
“Granger, I’m not going to go dying on you. If I’m going to die I want to at least be drunk and in the bed of a highly attractive woman.” He gave her a quick wink. “Besides, you’d miss me.”  
“No I wouldn’t,” she instinctively replied.  
“Alright, you might not miss me. But, you would miss all the money you make on commission selling my work.”  
Hermione just raised an eyebrow and gently shook the coffee mug in his direction.  
“Drink?”  
“Please,” and he grabbed the coffee. “Not that you seem to do anything with the money,” he said, his voice taking a whiny tone.  
“What money?” She distractedly asked, rummaging through her bag.  
“The money you make off me,” he explained. “In all the time we’ve been working together, I’ve never seen you in any new clothes, with a hair cut, or even have a dinner out. What are you doing with your new found riches?”  
“Nothing. Unlike you, who seems to have a propensity to spend money as if it grew on trees-“  
“It goes grow on trees, it is trees-“  
“Quiet,” she snapped, “just because you do spend money, doesn’t mean I have to.”  
“That’s just dull Granger.”  
“No its sensible.”  
“It’s like you are reading out of manual of how you waste your youth! You should be partying, going on dates!”  
“I do go on dates,” Hermione said defensively.  
“Not in the past six months.”  
“Neither have you,” she pointed out, cocking her head at him.  
Draco snorted and took a deep drag of his coffee.  
“That’s easy Granger, it’s because I don’t date. I simply meet like minded individuals in unsavoury places. And do unspeakable acts. ” He waggled his eyebrows at her.  
“About that unspeakable acts bit,” She waved a glossy magazine under his nose. On the front cover was Draco. With his belligerent expression and low necked shirt he looked the very picture of disheveled debauchery. Under the photo was a caption, emblazoned in yellow, which read Draco Malfoy: London’s new art nudist sensation.  
Draco grabbed the magazine and flicked through, his fingers making tiny squeaking noises on the shiny pages.  
He cursed.  
“That awful Skeeter woman,” he shouted, slapping the magazine to the floor. “She’s had it in for me since the altercation at my art show. I know she’d been hounding all my previous models for information. Fortunately, my relationships with models have always been very amicable.” He gave her a slow knowing smile.  
“Quite,” she cooly agreed.  
“I’m not a naked painter!” He said, again indignant.  
“Who is Astoria Greengrass?” Hermione asked.  
Rita had claimed in her article, that Astoria Greengrass, a model, had spent many weeks with Draco. And throughout that time neither of them had worn a stitch of clothing.  
“A model,” he replied, averting his gaze.  
“According to Rita, she doesn’t seem to be just a model.”  
Since the magazine had arrive on her desk, she’d spend far too much time wondering who Astoria Greengrass was. From the photo, included in Rita’s article, Astoria was exactly the type of woman Draco liked to paint.  
“When did we start trusting Rita’s word for things?” Draco asked hotly.  
“I can’t help you Draco if you don’t tell me the whole truth.”  
“She’s something of an ex. I spend a few months with her last year, painting her for the show.”  
“And?” Hermione refused to believe that was the whole story.”  
“She turned out to not be as beautiful on the inside. She left, after she found out my father had disinherited me. Didn’t like the idea of being the girlfriend of an impoverished artist.”  
“She seems to be trying to recoup some of her losses with Rita,” Hermione commented.  
“Her loss anyway. All the paintings of her are sold now, lining both our pockets Granger.”  
“The second thing I need to talk about-” Hermione started.  
“Not more stories about my naked body I hope,” he smirked at her.  
“More other people’s naked bodies,” she smiled back.  
“Oh, that’s fine then. Carry on Granger.”  
From her bag, she produced several print outs of email communications, fanning them in Draco’s general direction, “these are the emails between myself and Monsieur Dumbledore’s PA.”  
“Dumble what?”  
“Dumbledore,” she impatiently corrected him. “He’s an incredibly wealthy art collector, who now resides in the South of France.”  
“Never heard of him,” Malfoy shrugged.  
“Goodness Draco, do you live under a rock? He’s incredibly influential in the art world.” She shuffle her papers again, reading from one particular correspondence, “his assistant writes here, that Dumbledore wants to meet you. And intends to commission you to paint a selection of nudes.”  
“Nudes, that’ll be easy. Bet this old chap Dumbledore is in need of some female visual material.”  
Hermione’s mouth broke into a huge grin: she looked like the cat that had got the cream.  
“About that Malfoy. Monsieur Dumbledore’s tastes vary somewhat from your’s. He would like nudes, but of the male body.”  
Draco spat out his coffee in an impressive arch that span two feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop! Thank you for the Kudos and Bookmarks! Enjoying writing this so much
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	4. Chapter 4

“But I don’t paint men,” Draco whined.  
“When I first became your manager you said you’d intended to branch out and study the male form.” Hermione reminded.  
She tucked the papers back into her bag, scrunching them slightly in her haste. She watched Draco pace back and forth in front of her, his bare feet padding on the concrete floor. Paint spatters covered his jeans and white t shirt. Pink and blue paint streaked his blond hair, giving it a teenage tie-dye effect. A long red scab ran along one of his biceps, probably a trophy he got while climbing around the loft earlier.   
Draco scoffed. “I only said that about the male models to get the wind up you and Oliver. I intended to do no such thing. I’m strictly a naked woman only artist.”  
“Well you’d better evolve to an any gender artist soon, because if you snub Monsieur Dumbledore’s invitation your career is over.”  
Draco stoped his pacing and stood in front of her. She could see a slight tick in his jaw as he ground his teeth together, his thin lips undulating hypnotically. Folding his arms over his chest, he looked down his nose at her.  
“Surely, not wanting to paint this old man a few trumpets and flutes isn’t going to be the end of my career. You exaggerate Granger.”  
“I don’t. You have no idea of who Dumbledore influences. Sirius for one.”  
“Sirius? How does that matter?”  
“They’re old friends. Goodness Draco, how do you think Dumbledore found out about you in the first places; because Sirius recommend you.”  
“Well he can damn well un-recommend me,” Draco snapped. He grabbed the now empty paper coffee cup and threw it in the bin. His upper arms flexed with the movement, the shadows playing off his muscles.   
“Malfoy, do you really think Sirius will renew your contract if you refuse this commission,” Hermione appealed.   
“Do you mean you won’t be my manager anymore?” Draco asked, his voice faltering.   
“I wouldn’t be your manager anymore,” she admitted.   
Strange to think how much that sentence sadden her now. After working with Draco for half a year now she’d come to develop a fondness for him and an appreciation for how he worked. He concentrated on each painting with a passion and a focus which sometimes scared her. He would push his body, force his hands to steady, to rework any minute details he was dissatisfied with. When she‘d painted, she was more focused on the end result, seeing a completed painting in as short amount of time as possible. Draco, on the other hand, pushed his paintings to the limits of his capabilities.  
Draco seemed to be thinking. His eyes were downcast and concentrated on his hands, which he clenched and unclenched.

“Do you know why I became an artist Granger?” Draco asked, but not waiting for her response continued, “it was the one profession my father would hate the most. Apart from Opera singing,” he winked at her, “but I’m a terrible singer. I became an artist for my freedom and I dislike my paintings being decided for me.”  
“Draco, you’ll get paid. You might even enjoy it,” she tired to sooth.  
“Granger, you don’t get it. Art is my independence and I only paint what I want to paint. But,” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, adding green to the mix of blue and pink, “to keep you as my manager, I will accept Dumbledore’s commission.”   
“Draco,” she faltered, “I don’t know what to say.”  
“That must be a first.”   
“Perhaps,” she admitted.   
“You don’t need to say anything Granger. However,” and there was a gleam in his eyes that Hermione didn’t like, “you can do something for me.”  
He told her.  
“Absolutely not!” Hermione cried.   
“Well I can’t ask him! He’d presume I was trying to chat him up,” Draco eagerly explained.   
“Draco!”

Hermione’s hand shook at bit as she knocked on Oliver Wood’s front door. She’d only met Oliver a handful of times and he seemed like a nice man, always a bit quiet around Draco but you couldn’t blame him for that. Around Draco it was easier to say very little and let him speak himself silly.  
She was about to knock again when Oliver answered the door. His face broke into a smile when he saw her. He was a handsome man, a few years older than her and Draco. Being Draco’s personal trainer, Oliver was as expected: muscled and fit. She’d been present for a few of their fitness sessions and the sight of two muscular young men had been one she’d rather appreciated. Not that she could ever admit that to Draco.   
“Hermione. What a surprise, please do come in.” He moved to the side and she slipped into the hallway.  
“Sorry Oliver, for tuning up unannounced,” she said.  
“That’s alright. I know that when you spend any amount of time with Draco things happening unannounced becomes a regular occurrence,” he smiled at her again. She found herself noticing for the first time, his square jaw and even white teeth.   
“Classic Malfoy,” she agreed. “In fact, I’m here on a ‘classic’ Draco errand.”  
Oliver politely waited for her to elaborate.  
“Draco would like you to come with us to the South of France,” she said with false brightness.  
“And? There is always an ‘and’ with Draco.”  
“In France, he would like to paint you,” she gave an awkward smile, “nude.”  
Oliver laughed, “I knew the day would come. But, I hope Malfoy doesn’t intend to do to me what he normally does with his models.”  
Hermione gave a relieved laugh, surprised at how easy that had been, “Gosh no. However, it wouldn’t hurt him if you seemed up for the idea.”  
“I underestimated you Hermione, you have a streak of mischief in you a mile wide.”  
“I have to get my kicks where I can find them.”  
Oliver glanced at his watch. “Sorry Hermione, I’ve got to go. I have a client in twenty minutes. If you could call me with the plans for France that would be great. I’d love to get to know you more when we’re out there.”  
She blushed. She hadn’t ever considered Oliver in a potentially romantic capacity before. And she couldn’t deny he was good looking. Very different from Draco, who was lean and angular. Oliver was broad and well build, like a sportsman.   
“Sure, I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the Kudos and Bookmarks! Makes me want to keep the work up.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	5. Chapter 5

“Draco, can you hurry? We’re going to be late for the taxi to the airport,” Hermione shouted. She was standing in Draco’s living room, although living room was an inaccurate description, more like bomb site. Clothes were draped over the leather sofa, mugs and plates covered the coffee table and had left sticky rings on the glass top. Most disconcerting was the pair of boxers hanging from the ceiling light. Judging by the dust and spider webs, they had been there for a while. Hermione wondered what circumstances had lead to Draco’s pants flying that high into the air, then she thought she’d better not think too deeply into that one. It might require years of expensive therapy.   
“Just coming Granger,” Draco’s voice was muffled behind his closed bedroom door.  
Hermione looked at her own small suitcase and carry-on bag. They were only going for a week, how much did he need to pack? Draco’s paints and canvases had been shipped out to Monsieur Dumbledore’s chateau weeks ago. Getting him to pack up his equipment had been a bad enough task. She could still remember him hugging two tubes of almost identical oil paints to his chest and arguing over which was better for highlighting the ‘play’ of sunlight on hair. They’d packed both in the end.   
“Draco I’m coming in,” she announced, making her way to bedroom door. “You’d better be wearing something.”

Draco’s bedroom was in a similar state to the living room. Only worse.   
Three suitcases were laid out on the bed, all so stuffed with clothes that they could not be closed. Draco was running around, wearing just an open shirt and a pair of black boxers, grabbing more clothes (who knew how the man had so many pairs of black skinny jeans) and trying to unsuccessfully shove them into one of the overfull suitcases.   
“Granger, thank god you’re here. Have you got any room in your bag?” He said, holding out an armful of clothes to her.  
“Certainly not. Just pack less.”  
“But Granger, I need all my clothes. I have to express myself.”  
“Express yourself! Draco, you do nothing but express yourself.”  
“I’m an artist, I have to look good.”  
“Most of the artists I’ve come across care less about what they look like and care more about their work,” she snapped. “Now lets try and zip up one of these cases so we can go.” She moved to the bed and tried to squash the case closed, but she could barely get the zipper to move an inch.  
“Come here Granger,” Draco said, taking her by the waist, “this is how you close a suitcase.” He abruptly lifted her into the air and placed her onto of the suitcase. “Stay there,” he commanded, and he quickly zipped up the now closed suitcase. “I’m glad you’ve put on a bit of weight recently, otherwise you might not have been heavy enough to close it,” he casually commented. Lifting her by the waist again, he lifted her off and back onto the ground.  
Hermione’s face was beetroot red. She didn’t know what she was more offended at, the comment about her weight or being manhandled by Malfoy. She opened her mouth a couple of times, trying to come up with an appropriate curse. Draco grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and struggled them on.  
“Don’t stand their gawping Granger. We have to be off.” Draco hoisted the case off the bed and swiftly left the room.

Hermione meekly followed, her brain felt as if it was on autopilot.  
“God Granger, how small is your luggage?” Draco said, as he did up his shirt. “Bet its full of books anyway.”  
Hermione couldn’t argue with that, over half of her luggage space was dedicated to books.  
With his free hand Draco grabbed her bag and began waddling to the door.  
“Get the door Granger. I’ve got my hands full.”  
Starting, she quickly grabbed her carry-on and hurried to open the door.  
“Good girl. Slam the door after you. The damn door sticks something awful since it was broken down, but I swear the orgy didn’t get that rough.”  
Draco’s back was to her, but her breath audibly hitched.  
“I would pay good money to see your face right now Granger.”  
“Shut it Malfoy,” was all she could manage. 

Getting Draco to the airport didn’t have any other hitches, thank god. As they dragged their luggage into the gate, Hermione was relieved to see Oliver Wood waiting for them. Like her, he seemed to have packed on the light side.  
“Let me take that for you,” Oliver said, holding out his hand for her carry-on bag. Draco was still carrying her suitcase.  
“What about taking my bag Oliver?” Draco added.  
“Nah Draco, your arms could do with the weight training,” Oliver bounced back, throwing a knowing smile at Hermione. 

There was a bit of a fuss at security when Draco refused to be parted from his hairspray, aerosols being on the list of banned cabin items. He just glared at Oliver when he pointed out that this was the rule in every airport, all around in the world.  
Finally, they were on the plane. Draco had insisted on the aisle seat and Oliver had kindly asked if Hermione would like the window, leaving Oliver playing piggy in the middle between her and Draco.  
Draco immediately stated that he needed his ‘beauty sleep’ and delicately, so to not ruin his hair, placed the eye mask and ear buds in.  
“Thank you Hermione,” Oliver said, tuning in his seat to face her, “for organising this trip so well. I can imagine pinning Draco down for any time and date is a challenge.”  
“You’re welcome. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, at least he’d partially packed when I picked him up.”  
Oliver shuffled, trying to get comfortable. He was a big man, and his shoulders were pushing against her’s, but she could tell he was trying his best to not take up her seat.   
“Would you like the arm rest?” She offered.  
“Aye, that would be great. They don’t make middle seats for people my size,” he smiled ruefully at her.   
“Do you think Draco snores?”  
“Something terrible. We went on a hiking trip earlier in the year-“  
“You got Malfoy to go hiking,” Hermione exclaimed.  
At her voice Draco started, but didn’t wake. Oliver and her looked at each other, trying to not laugh.  
“Just a wee hike. Only up some of the smaller hills and mountains in Wales.”  
“Was he a princess?”  
“He did complain rather a lot,” Oliver admitted. “Between you and me, I won’t be camping with him ever again.”  
Hermione smiled, she could imagine what Draco would have been like in the great outdoors.  
“Anyway, he snored the whole night. I ended up leaving the tent and kipping outside.”  
“But weren’t there wild animals?”  
“Not that far south. But, with the noise Draco was making any predator was going to give us a wide birth.”  
As if on cue, Draco gave a loud snore.  
“See, he could give wild boars a run for their money.”

“And the peacock chased you round the whole garden!?” Hermione asked. Her sides were aching from laughter. Oliver had been telling her mad stories of his youth for the whole flight.  
“Aye, yes, the bloody bird would not let up. I didn’t know it was nesting. They should warn you about those things! I still have the scars on the back of my thighs from where it bit me! When Draco paints me he’s going to have a fit when I tell him I got attacked by a sodding bird.”  
Hermione was partly crying now, “Draco will probably presume any scars are from sex gone wrong.”  
“What would I presume about sex Granger?” Draco asked coldly, removing his eye mask.  
Hermione and Oliver looked at each other, like children being caught with their finger’s in the sweet jar, and abruptly broke into fits of giggles.  
“What was so amusing that you had to make so much noise?”   
“Noise?” Hermione asked, feigning innocence, “there was no noise. Other than your snoring.”  
“I don’t snore!”  
“Aye sorry mate,” Oliver added, “but you do.”  
“You are both children,” Draco said, indignant. “I’ll talk to you when you’re both behaving your age.” And with that he snapped on his eye mask and shoved his ear buds back in.  
Hermione started to laugh.

Hermione was still smiling when they were in the hire car driving to Chateau Chèvre, Dumbledore’s home. Although the term ‘home’ was stretching it, because the Chateau was basically a castle. Chateau Chèvre was made of golden coloured sandstone, it’s walls were topped with crenelations and four turreted towers standing majestically at each corner.   
Hermione couldn’t stop herself from gasping as they drove up the a drive lined with trees covered in fairy lights.

“Wow,” Oliver said, “I just bet there are peacocks.”

Monsieur Dumbledore looked just how you would expect the eccentric owner of a modern day castle to look. His hair was long and white, and shone like the moon in the dusky light. His beard rested on his chest and he wore a smoking jacket with embroidered lapels.   
“My friends, you are very welcome here,” he greeted, his accent distinctly english for the French countryside.  
“Good evening Sir,” Hermione said, accepting Dumbledore’s kiss on the back of her hand, “you have such an exquisite home. Please let me introduce Oliver Wood and the artist Draco Malfoy.”  
Malfoy moved forward, his hand rising to shake Dumbledore’s when the old man, with sprightly vigour, enclosed Draco in an embrace trapping Draco’s hand between them.  
Malfoy froze.  
“You were going for a handshake weren’t you my boy.” Dumbledore said.  
“Err yes,” Draco stammered, his composure ruffled.  
“Is that why your hand is pressed into my crotch?”   
“Errrr.”  
Hermione giggled. She’d never seen Draco so uncomfortable.  
Dumbledore released Draco from the embrace.  
“Just checking, thought my luck might be in,” Dumbledore said, his light blue eyes twinkling.  
“Errrrrrrrr!”

“Can you believe that old man?” Draco whispered to her as they followed Dumbledore into the castle’s grand entrance hall. A thick red carpet muffled their foot falls and woven tapestries covered the stone walls. The tapestries showed different scenes of a Medieval hunt. Knights on horses their swords enclosed in coloured scabbards and women wearing long gowns and their hair covered by wimpole hats. What fascinated Hermione most of all were the animals: the hunting dogs captured in flight, deer silhouetted in the distance and the detail of the course hide of the wild boar.   
“It’s no worse that what you do,” she replied, keeping her voice low so not to distract Dumbledore from his conversation with Wood.  
“Yes it is!”  
“No, it’s quite similar actually.”  
Draco looked like he wanted to argue with her, but at that moment Dumbledore opened a large oak door.  
“Lady and Gentlemen,” he announced, “dinner is served.”

It was late when Hermione flopped on the four poster bed in her room. She’d almost cried aloud with joy when she’d seen the bed: the carved oak was mottled and worn from age, but the thick velvet drapes were new and were a brilliant green.   
She looked up at the bed’s canopy. The canopy was carved with vines and flowers, like the four posts of the bed, but she could see tiny initials engraved into the wood. She stood up on the mattress to get a better look. She could just reach the canopy and she ran her fingers across the pairs of initials. Hermione felt sure that these letters represented the couples who’d shared this bed over the centuries.   
The door opened and Draco came in.  
“It’s polite to knock,” she rebuked. But she was pleased to see him, the thought of all those past lovers had made her feel very alone in the present.  
Draco ignored her chastising and lay across the bed, his arms outstretched. “Your bed is a lot comfier that mine. Do you want to swap?”  
She sagged down next to him, “No, I’m rather attached to the room now.”  
“But my room is next to Oliver’s.”  
“What are you talking about?” She sat up, propping herself up on her elbows.  
Draco rolled over and bent his arm so that he was cradling his head, “You know what I mean. You and Wood were flirting the whole way here.”  
“We were having a conversation Draco,” Hermione defended.   
“I’ve never seen you be that flirtatious in a conversation before,” he snapped.  
“Oh, and when have you watched me flirt Malfoy?”  
“In college. When you didn’t have a stick up your ass!”  
“Better than trying to shove your stick into anything with a pulse.”   
Malfoy’s nostrils were flaring, his eyes harsh and piercing. Her own breathing was heavy, her chest sharply rising and falling.   
“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” Draco said.  
“The only one here being a fool is you!” She spat back. Her eyes burned and her vision blurred as tears pooled in her eyes.   
“Seriously Granger,” his tone was soft, “Oliver is a nice bloke, but he can’t see past his muscles.” He took her hand and ran his thumb along the inside of her palm. His hand was warm enclosing hers and she could feel the slightly roughness of his fingers as they traced her love line.   
“You are hardly one to criticise, you can barley see beyond someone’s face,” she said, her own anger simmering in her belly rather than boiling.  
He signed and rolled his shoulders back, as if trying to relieve some tension from them.  
“I know my own faults.”  
“Ha,” she scoffed, “humility from a Malfoy, unlikely.”  
“You’re too good for him Hermione,” he sat up and looked at her face, “there’s so much too you, so many passions and dreams. Don’t give up another one over a guy.” He still held her hand, but his grip was stronger as if he was trying to hold on to her.   
Hermione looked away. She couldn’t bare his face, his expression was so beautiful and sincere. It made her want to hit him, or hug him. She couldn’t decide which.  
“You should go,” she whispered, whipping her eyes with the back of her free hand, “you have to start painting in the morning.”  
He let her hand go.   
“You always know whats best, my manager.”  
He softly closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much longer chapter. Thank you for the Kudos and subscriptions! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	6. Chapter 6

When Hermione woke, dawn’s light was peeping around the edges of the curtains. She’d had a restless night, the cream sheets were tangled round her legs and a pillow lay next to the bed, neglected on the stone floor. She stretched her arms far above head and her necked popped with a satisfying click. Swinging out of the huge bed, she padded across the floor to the door and turned the handle.  
In the light of day, the castle felt much larger and older, making her feel more like stranger in a foreign land. Her room was on the second floor, meaning she would have to turn left- no right, or was it right then left- to find the staircase. After five minutes of wandering in these labyrinthine corridors she wished that she’d changed into some clothes, rather than leaving her room in her pink stripped pyjamas.  
Suddenly, her heard footsteps coming from around the bend. Oliver came round the corner, his brown hair was damp and tousled and his white shirt was tight on his broad chest. She gulped.  
“Good morning,” he said, beaming at her.  
“Hi Oliver.” She was now even more aware of lack of proper clothing.  
Oliver gave a perceptive look, taking everything from her bed hair to her bare feet.  
“Are you lost?”  
“Yes!” she wailed. “Please help me.”  
He laughed.  
“Don’t laugh,” she said, only the edge of irritation in her voice.  
“I’m sorry, but you look so funny standing there, like a confused kitten.”  
Hermione wasn’t sure how much she liked being compared to a kitten, particularly a confused one. But, Oliver was her only hope if she wanted to find breakfast.  
“Where are the stairs, I need some breakfast.”  
“I’ll take you, I was on my way there,” he said.  
“Have you been up long?” She said, following him as he turned right, into a passage she hadn’t seen.  
“A few hours. Dumbledore said I could use the grounds for running, so I took advantage of the early morning. I cam back for a shower, and good job I did otherwise you’d still be lost. By the way,” he smiled back at her, “there are peacocks.”  
“Really? Did you manage to fight them off,” she asked, dryly.  
“These ones seem a lot more docile. There was even a white one. Here we are,” he said as they turned left and the welcome site of the large staircase came into view.  
“Thank god,” she reverently uttered, “coffee.”

Breakfast was a bizarre affair, and mainly because of their host. As Oliver led her into the large dinning room, she was taken back by the sound of thundering music. A large grande piano stood in one corner of the room, and playing, resplendent in a mustard yellow dressing gown, was Monsieur Dumbledore. His tapered fingers were dancing over the keys and his voice was trembling it’s way into the final refrain of of La donna è mobile, from Giuseppe Verdi’s opera Rigoletto.  
Hermione clapped loudly, as Dumbledore performed the final few notes of the canzone. Oliver joined her, although his expression looked a bit stunned. Dumbledore bowed his head graciously at them, and with a flick his dressing gown rose from the stool.  
“My friends,” Dumbledore said, as he pulled a chair out for Hermione, “please sit and nourish yourselves.”  
The dining table was crammed with sliver platters containing, what seemed to Hermione to be, every type of food that had ever been described as a breakfast. It ranged from the traditional eggs (sunny, poached, boiled and scrambled) and traditional French pastries to the exotic, with kimchee and three different varieties of falafel.  
Hermione helped herself to a cup of Japanese slow drip coffee and a fairly normal looking piece of toast.  
“I was not sure what my guests would prefer, so I instructed the cook to prepare a bit of everything,” Dumbledore said, as he covered his croissant with kimchee. Hermione didn’t think she would be trying that combination out anytime soon.  
“You have a lovely voice Monsieur,” Hermione complimented.  
“I find an energetic sing in the morning always improves the mood. I have always enjoyed the irony of La donna è mobile, meaning ‘Woman is fickle’,” Dumbledore translated and Hermione noticed that he directed this more to Oliver than herself, “for in my experience, I have always found men to be by far fickler than the fairer sex.”  
“Do you always sing Opera?” Hermione questioned. She wasn’t sure if she how she’d react if he decided to expand his musical genre each morning. She had a flash of Dumbledore performing Cabaret on the dining table, twirling in his yellow dressing gown!  
“In the morning, I have a tendency to stick to Opera and the Classical, but evening is another matter.” He winked at her over his chine tea cup, his blue eyes glittering. “The first time I saw Rigoletto, it was performed in makeshift amphitheatre in the open air, by the lake side of Giacomo Puccini’s country house. We were besieged by flies the whole night. Next morning, I rather looked like I’d contracted chicken pox.”  
“Where’s Draco this morning?” Oliver interrupted, as if the talk of contagious diseases had suddenly reminded him of Malfoy.  
Hermione snorted, “Draco is not an earlier riser.”  
“You’re wrong Granger, as a matter of a fact I am a very quick riser,” Draco drawled, as he walked into the room.  
Surprised at his sudden appearance, Hermione gave a stifled cry and spluttered, choking on her toast.  
As she choked, Draco patted her on the back a couple of times, “There, there Granger.” He sat down next to her and spoke, so only she could hear, “I’d usually prefer a bit more foreplay before you started choking on me.”  
She coughed louder and her cheeks started to blush.  
Draco silently passed her a glass of water, “Drink up Granger, that shade of red does not suit you.”  
It was like their conversation last night had never happened, she thought, as she watched Draco pile his plate with food. He looked refreshed, his eyes were clear and unhidden, as he’d pulled back his long hair with a leather band.  
“Pass the jam Granger,” he commanded.  
She didn’t move.  
“Please,” he sighed.  
She passed him the jam. 

“I thought,” Dumbledore said, interrupting Malfoy and her familiar banter, “that Draco could paint in the ballroom. The light is wonderful there. I made the presumption of having you materials sent there.”  
“Sounds great,” Draco said.  
She jabbed him in the side. “Play nice Malfoy,” she muttered.  
Draco winced. “Yes, thank you Monsieur Dumbledore,” he said, giving their host a strained smile, “I am much obliged to you for preparing everything.”  
“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said and he rose from his chair, “I will check on your progress this evening. Until then.” He left the room.  
“You know mate,” Oliver said, turning to Draco, “I get the feeling he doesn’t like you very much.”

Just as Dumbledore has said, the ballroom was laid out with all of Malfoy’s supplies. The ballroom was a large rectangular room with a high ceiling, along one wall were a series of windows which looked out onto manicured lawns. Near the windows, paints were piled in crates with canvases leant against them and the velvet cases containing Draco’s prized brushes were placed on a trestle table next to a large wooden easel. In the centre of the room was a plinth, with pillows and cloth folded upon it. Obviously, that was were Oliver was mean to pose himself.  
On seeing the crates, Draco immediately busied himself with opening and checking the paints before ordering them on the table.  
Oliver moved to go over and help, but Hermione halted him. “He has a system,” she explained.  
Finally, Draco heaved one of the huge canvases onto the easel and dextrously adjusted it to the right height and incline. “Give me half a sec Wood, just to take some photos of the background, then we can get started,” Draco said, as he picked up his camera and started prancing about, clicking the camera every few seconds.  
“Is he always like this?” Oliver asked, watching Malfoy with interest.  
“Always. He gets very intense, really focused,” she replied. “But only when he’s working, the moment he puts the paint brush down he’s away with the fairies again.”  
Draco put his camera down, and turned to where her and Oliver stood.  
“Can you come over to the plinth Oliver,” Draco asked, “I just to talk you through the pose I have planned.”

Hermione contentedly watched as Draco demonstrated to Oliver where he wanted him. She wasn’t usually around for this part of Draco’s work. Then again, given that he was normally trying to seduce his models, she didn’t really want to be around. She guessed his behaviour with Oliver was very different to how it normally was with his female models. At the thought, she felt her shoulders tense.  
“You can get your kit off now Oliver,” Draco said, handing him a cotton robe.  
Oliver began to strip. Hermione tilted her head, as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. His lightly tanned skin only highlighted the dips and shadows of his chest muscles. Oliver winked at her. She audibly swallowed when he started to undo his belt.  
“Granger!” Draco shouted, and rushed over holding a sheet out to block her view, “what are you doing?”  
“Nothing,” she said, innocently.  
“You can’t be here for this!” He exclaimed.  
“Why not? I’ll see everything in the painting.”  
“But… because,” Draco stammered, “but you're a girl!”  
“Exactly Malfoy, I’m a girl. This is the bit I’d like to see.”  
Draco was stunned, his mouth kept opening and closing like a goldfish.  
“She can stay Draco, I don’t mind,” Oliver called, hidden behind the sheet Draco still held in white-knuckled hands.  
“That’s not the point!” Draco shrieked. “Don’t encourage her Wood!”  
She sighed. “Fine Draco, can I come back when he’s all posed and covered?”  
Draco was visibly relieved, but he didn’t relax his hold on the sheet.”  
“Yes, come back once Wood’s wood is covered up,” Draco agreed.  
“I thought you said everything would be on show Malfoy?” Oliver yelled.  
“I’ve changed my mind!” Draco shouted back, visibly shuddering. “Out Granger, out, out. I can’t have your mind being sullied.”

Hermione backed out of the room, trying not to laugh at Draco’s peculiar reaction. She wandered down the corridor back towards the dining room, as she was still unsure with the layout of the castle. She passed large stone doors embedded with iron rivets and discoloured with age.  
“Miss Granger?”  
She turned. Dumbledore was standing in the corridor, he’d obviously just come out the closed door she’d just pasted.  
“Hello Monsieur, I was just going back to the dining room,” she explained, walking back to where he stood.  
“Not staying for the painting?” He questioned.  
“No, Draco had a problem with me being there while he was posing Oliver,” she explained, trying to not show her confusing over this too obviously.  
“Oh? I wouldn’t think someone with Mr Malfoy’s openness, wouldn’t have objected to you being there.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes were piercing and far too insightful.  
“Neither did I,” she admitted.  
“Perhaps Mr Malfoy is going through some emotional transition which is affecting his normal behaviour,” Dumbledore conjectured, his tone light and airy. “My dear,” he took her arm and tucked it paternally into the crook of his elbow, “I heard that you are quite the reader. Let me show you the library.”  
“You have a library!”

The library was beautiful proportioned room. Glass covered oak bookshelves ran along each well and were broken up by large arch windows. The floor was covered by a large carpet, worn and indented by years of use and the weight of furniture. Green leather armchairs were casually placed around low coffee tables. Apart from the windows, the light was dim only a few lamps glowed with a yellow shine.  
“Oh,” she moaned, “its beautiful.” She let her eyes rove over the closest shelf, the books bound in cracked covers and embossed with gold lettering.  
“Feel free to read whatever you wish,” Dumbledore said, “my home is your home.”  
“I promise I will be careful,” she gushed, her eyes shone with bibliophilia.  
“I shall leave you here to explore,” Dumbledore said, his hand on the door handle, “I’m sure you’ll be able to while away the time until Mr Malfoy deems it modest enough for you to enter the inner art sanctum again.” He shut the door.  
Hermione squealed with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep those Kudos coming! :D


	7. Chapter 7

Several hours later Hermione awoke to find Oliver kneeling beside her as she snoozed in one of the library’s armchairs.  
“What time is it?” Hermione asked, rubbing her eyes.  
“Nearly dinner,” Oliver replied, “Dumbledore said he’d shown you the library.”  
“I missed the whole day?”  
Oliver smiled, “you didn’t miss much. More of Draco bounding around with his camera or sketching with charcoal.”  
“He’s never been a good draftsman,” she commented, trying to stifle a yawn.   
“Can I escort you to dinner?” Oliver asked, “just so you don’t get lost again.”  
She smiled and rolled her eyes.

Dinner was served in the same room as breakfast. Dumbledore explained that there were actually three dining rooms but he preferred to exclusively use this one, except when he threw a grand party.  
Draco was already sitting at the table and she took the seat next to him.  
“Where did you disappear to?” Draco asked her, between mouthfuls.  
“The library,” she explained, cutting into her own dinner.   
“I mentioned to Dumbledore how much of a bookworm you were.”  
“Did you? Thank you,” she was surprised that he’d done that. Draco had always been somewhat scornful about her fondness for books.  
“Had to keep you out of trouble.”  
“How is the painting?”  
Draco shrugged. “I will not get used to seeing Oliver’s tackle. Or drawing it,” he flatly replied.   
Hermione said nothing. She noticed that the sparkle seemed to have gone out of his face. His eyes looked tired, and dulled by the day’s events.   
He turned away from her and asked something to Oliver. 

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said, distracting her from Draco’s odd behaviour, “Mr Malfoy was saying that the painting was progressing nicely. He believes he will have this first one completed within the week. Then we can discuss the potential of a series of paintings.”  
“Absolutely, I look forward to it,” she replied. “I enjoyed your library Monsieur,” she added and smiled at their host.  
Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled in reply. “Mr Malfoy also mentioned that you, yourself were an accomplished artist.”  
Hermione blanched at that, she could hardly imagine Draco saying that about her. “I haven’t drawn in a very long time,” she admitted.  
“Why?”  
Hermione paused, considering her answer. “I guess,” she started, “I fell out of love with it. Not art, that is. But the creation of art.”  
“We never fall out of love Miss Granger, only forget momentarily why we loved,” Dumbledore stated. “I hope that while you are at my home, you may rediscover why.”  
She drank deeply from her wine goblet, unsure of what to say. 

As dinner continued, Hermione found herself feeling unsettled with the days events. From Draco’s weird reaction in the ballroom, to Dumbledore’s cryptic words just now. She took another long drink of wine. The red wine lingered on her tongue, the subtle bouquet of flavours. She drank again. She could taste cardamon and oranges, with a hint of cinnamon.   
“Granger,” Draco said.   
To Hermione his voice sounded far away, as if he was talking underwater.   
“Oh hell,” he cursed, “you’re drunk.”  
“Nooo,” she argued and shook her head with exaggerated movements, causing her vision to swim.   
“Damn it Granger! Here,” he said, “take my arm. I’ll say I’m taking you out to get some air. Don’t say I word.” He stood up and pulled her up with him.   
She felt like her feet had gone to sleep, but she allowed herself to be half carried out of her seat.  
“I’m just taking Hermione for a walk,” Draco announced, and before either Oliver or Dumbledore could reply, he dragged her out of the dining room.  
Hermione stumbled, getting her feet caught on each other.  
“Hell,” Draco said, and with a grunt he lifted her up in his arms. “I can’t believe this is how I get you in my arms,” he muttered.   
“What?” Hermione slurred.  
“Shush. I need to concentrate getting you around these corners.”

The garden was cool and refreshing moisture hung in the air. Draco carried her along the terrace and onto the garden’s well-manicured walk ways. There he slid her down, until her feet touched cool stone and held her still his his arms.   
Hermione could feel the burning heat of his body pressed again her’s. His chest was firm, and his rapid heart beat pounded through her body.  
“Granger, look at me,” he whispered, cupping her chin with one hand.  
She met his gaze, feeling goggled eyed. “Hello?”  
His eyes were soft, and slightly hazy in her current inebriated state. She goofily smiled at him, showing all her teeth.   
“You’re very drunk aren’t you,” he said.  
“I think you might be right,” she giggled and squirmed in his arms.  
Draco gave a low groan, “Please Hermione, don’t do that.”  
She fidgeted again. “Why not?”  
“Because, it makes me feel a way I can’t feel with you while your drunk,” Draco said, his voice strained.   
“What do you feel?” She asked, coyly widening her eyes.  
“Don’t look at me that way Hermione, you’re not playing fair.” He brushed his hand against her cheek and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.  
“You don’t play fair,” she reminded.  
“No, I don’t. But I’m not unfair either.” He loosened his hold on her, unwrapping his arms and just holding her up by her arms.   
She missed his warmth, without it the garden was much colder.   
“Over here,” he said, guiding her over to a bench, “you should sober up in a few minutes.”  
They sat, Hermione’s head automatically rested on his shoulder. Draco shifted and readjusted his position. He slipped his hand around and placed it next to her on the bench, allowing her to lean back onto his arm.   
“Do you remember the first time we met?” He asked.  
“Yes,” the stone bench was cold against the back of her thighs.  
“You walked into History of Art, wearing this impossibly short skirt-“  
“It wasn’t that short,” she quickly corrected.  
“Yes it was,” he reaffirmed, “it was tiny. And you sat down next to me. I felt like the luckiest boy in the world. Do you remember what you said to me?”   
“Not really,” she admitted, “was it about Ruskin?”  
“Yes, you asked if I agreed with John Ruskin on ‘perfection’.”  
“Did I? That sounds like me.”  
“I quote, you said, ‘Ruskin famously states that, “the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art”, but I consider that an artists can reach perfection when considering an audience reaction to art, in all its forms.’ Un-quote.” He leaned back and relaxed on the bench, “You sounded like an academic paper. To this day, it is the hottest and most intelligent thing a girl had ever said to me.” *  
She snuggled further into his shoulder, “I was talking rot. Ruskin was right, you can only strive to reach perfection.”  
“I don’t know. I think someone did I pretty perfect job with you.”  
“Be quiet now, so I can sleep,” she whispered and closed her eyes.  
Before she fell asleep she heard Draco mutter, “I just knew I’d end up carrying your ass up three flights of stairs.”

Her head hurt. It really hurt. The pounding pain started behind her eyes and continued through her whole body. She was lying in bed, wearing her clothes from yesterday and smelling like she had too. Someone had pulled the sheets over her and closed the four-poster bed curtains, blocking out the hateful light.   
Groaning she rolled over and waved her hand wildly at the curtains, trying to get them to open. Streaks of light flooded through, hitting her sore eyes and causing her to wince back under the covers vampirically.   
“Good morning Granger,” a cheerful voice called, way too loudly for Hermione’s brain.  
“Go away,” she grumbled, hiding her face in the pillow.   
“It that anyway to talk to your favourite client,” Draco said, deftly pulling back the bed’s curtains.  
“You’re not my favourite client, you’re a menace.”  
“But I brought coffee.”  
Hermione’s head jerked up, and she smelt the delicious aroma of roasted beans.  
“Give me,” she grunted.  
“No. Only if you sit up and apologise to me,” Draco teased.  
“Do I have to? Can’t you just leave the coffee and go away.”  
“Nope, apology first.”  
She moaned, “I’m sorry I called you a fat head.”  
“You didn’t call me a fat head!”  
“Well I have now.”  
“Granger, do you want the coffee?”  
“I’m sorry I said you were a menace. Now give me the coffee please,” she whined.

Draco took her arm and gently lifted her into a sitting position. Her head pounded even more from the movement, but she could see the cup of steaming coffee waiting for her on the bedside table. Salvation.   
Draco sat on the edge of the bed and passed her the coffee. He looked wonderful, the sparkle was back in his eyes and his mouth formed a soft smile.   
“How are you feeling?” He asked.  
“Not good,” she admitted. She look a huge slurp of the coffee and gave a low moan of bliss.   
Draco’s gaze suddenly fixed on her face. His eyes darkened and he wetted his lips.   
“Is the coffee that good?”   
She drank again, “Yes, I’m experiencing the greatest pleasure in this coffee.”  
“The greatest?”  
She nodded, “The greatest pleasure known to man.”  
“Not this man,” he huskily said.   
Hermione stopped drinking, the cup rim pressed against her lips. “Oh?”

Draco took the cup from her unresisting hand and placed it on the bedside table. Leaning over he smoothed his fingers longer he jawline and up to her cheekbones. Hermione had the swift recollection of him doing the same thing out in the garden. Memories began to trickle back and the blush started to rise in her cheeks.   
“Do you remember?” He asked, his clever fingers now playing with the edge of her ear. His hair hung over his eyes, and brushed against his fine jaw line. She automatically started to life her hand to sweep it away.  
“I…I” she faulted.  
Knock, knock.   
The sound of the knocking was like a bucket of icy water being poured over Hermione. She shrunk back from Draco, and lifted her sheet to her chin. As if the covers could protect her from the intense look Draco was giving her.   
“Damn it,” Draco cursed, “what a way to ruin the moment.”

* Quote from: Ruskin, John. On Art and Life (Penguin Great Ideas), Penguin Books Ltd. Chapter 8, p. 26.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, thank you for the Kudos. Just awesome :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Knock, knock. “Hermione?” Oliver called though the door, “Are you ok?”  
“Damn him,” Draco said, quickly rising from Hermione’s bed and opening the door.   
Oliver looked startled at a furious looking Draco..   
“Oliver,” Draco said, “she’s fine.”  
“Draco. Hermione. I just wanted to check you were ok?” Oliver said, looking past Draco at Hermione in the bed.   
Draco moved to the side, blocking Oliver’s view into the room. “I’m sure she doesn’t need to be goggled at, this early in the morning,” Draco commented.  
“Course,” Oliver said apologetically, “I’ll see you both late-”   
Draco shut the door in his face. 

“Draco! That was incredibly rude,” she scolded. Her head gave a warning ache but she got up up and tossed her dressing gown on.   
“You didn’t seem to mind just then,” Draco reminded.  
“I didn’t want to show up your behaviour in front of your friend.”   
Draco snorted. “I very much doubt that it was my behaviour you were worried about.”  
“What does that mean?” She asked, her hackles rising.  
“You know exactly what I mean.”  
“No I don’t”  
“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” he said, darkly.  
“What way?”  
“Like…like you’re checking him out!”  
Hermione gave a dry laugh, “You? Seriously, You? Commenting on me checking someone out? You can’t even talk to a woman without inviting her to bed.”  
“I haven’t slept with anyone in months.”  
“What?” Hermione was stunned, she’d always presumed that when she left Draco and his hired models in the studio, try and sleep with them would be the first thing he’d do.  
“Do I have to repeat it?” He winced, as if admitting he hadn’t dipped his wick in the while was causing him physical pain.   
“Yes.”  
He sighed, and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “I haven’t slept with anyone in months.”  
“Oh?” She said, lamely.   
“Oh” Draco gave her an incredulous look, “I tell you that, and all you can say is ‘Oh’!”  
“I’m not going to congratulate you,” she said, heatedly.  
Draco threw up his hands exasperatedly and made for the door. “You are the most stubborn and oblivious woman I’ve ever met,” he exclaimed and slammed the door closed behind him.  
“You should know,” she shouted at the closed door, “you’ve met enough women!” 

 

Hermione didn’t feel right going to the ballroom to check the progression of the painting now. She couldn’t face Draco, and she certainly couldn’t face a naked Oliver. Oh my gosh, do not use the word face when thinking about naked Oliver! The thought of trying to explain, or apologise, for Draco’s weird behaviour to him while he was posed in a seductive manner was intolerable.   
She remembered Dumbledore mentioning that there was a swimming pool somewhere in the gardens. Perhaps some physical exercise would help her get rid of this heated feeling in her body. Grabbing her swimsuit and her discarded dressing gown she left in search of the pool. And hopefully her sanity.

Hermione squealed as she put her toe in the pool. It was freezing! The pool was shaded from the morning sun by a tall hedge. No wonder it was so cold, it probably wouldn’t heat up till late afternoon. Going down another rung on the pool’s ladder, she made another small squeal, like a pig. Thank goodness she hadn’t worn a bikini, she couldn’t bear the thought of how freezing the water would feel on her bare stomach.   
“Hermione,” a voice called from behind her on the other side of the pool.  
She tried to turn her head, to see who it was, but she her foot slipped and she toppled back into the artic like water.

Her body made an awful slap as she hit the water. The cold hit her like an anaesthetic. She automatically tried to breath but took in a lung full of chlorinated water. Her hands flapped pathetically, trying to find the ladder’s handles. Then her foot slammed into the pool’s floor. She was in the shallow end. Of course she was. Pathetic.   
Hermione’s head broke the surface of the water. Later, she liked to imagine that she’d come up from the water and gracefully flicker her hair in a majestic arced, but instead she looked more like a puppy having it’s first bath. A bit like a drowned rat.   
“Hermione, what happened?” Oliver worriedly asked. He was kneeling by the side of the pool, his brown eyes full on concern.   
She gave a snort as she tried to clear the water out of her nose, she was aware of how unattractive this must look. “You surprised me and I fell,” she abbreviated.   
“I keep coming to see you at bad moments don’t I?”  
“Its alright,” she tried to sound reassuring, “at least it got me into the water quickly.”  
Oliver laughed, “I was on a break and I saw you walking here and I thought I’d say hello. Draco seemed to have a problem with that this morning.” She noticed he was wearing a cotton robe which was securely tied round his waist.   
“Don’t worry about Draco, he’s being a bit dramatic at the moment.” A ‘bit’ dramatic was an understatement.   
“Sorry for freaking you out, anyway,” he said, standing up, “I’ll leave you to it.”  
“See you at dinner,” she managed, watching his retreating back. It was dawning on her and she wasn’t so keen to see Oliver as she had been earlier on in the week. 

Swimming did nothing to help her confused mind, or the fiery feeling in her belly. She flopped out of the water, her limbs jelly like and grabbed a towel and her dressing gown off a sun lounger. She heard a crackle coming from inside her robe pocket . It was a piece of paper, she unfolded it and looked at the unfamiliar curled handwriting. It read, After dinner, meet me in the rose garden. It was signed with two initials, but due to the coiled calligraphy writing she couldn’t make out the initials. Was it DN, or OM? But from this angle it looked like DM. For Draco? Or could the D be an O, perhaps Oliver had left her the note just now?   
She sighed and shoved the note back in her pocket. She started to rub her hair dry, aware that in half-an-hour it would be a frizzy mess from the chlorinated water. What was she going to do? If this note was from Oliver then she didn’t know how to tell him how she felt, or didn’t feel about him.   
She didn’t want to call it friend zoning. It was more ‘I’m emotionally confused because I may be attracted to my hot ex-enemy, now client’ zoning.   
But what if Draco had given her the note? That opened up a whole bag of feelings that she’d been trying to keep shut.  
Maybe the note wasn’t from either of them, it wasn’t like she recognised the handwriting. Perhaps it was from some random person? Yes Hermione, some random person is trying to meet with you in a romantic setting in a secluded castle. Damn, this stupid note with it’s stupid calligraphy. And damn Malfoy!

Hermione arrive to dinner late. She said to herself that she was late due to trying to fix her hair, now an unmanageable frizz since swimming. But who was she kidding! It was that note, and the cryptic meeting after dinner.   
She made her excuses to Dumbledore and sat in the only empty place, between Draco and Oliver. She felt like the filling in a testosterone sandwich. The civil awkwardness between the three of them was palpable, like a heat haze over a dry road it distorted every gesture and attempted conversation.   
At one point she’d asked if she could have the salt, and they’d scrabbled with the tiny silver pot until Oliver, victorious, handed it to her. She expected by dessert that they would each be holding her arms and playing tug of war.   
Eventually, dinner was over. The moment their plates had been cleared Draco and Oliver left the room, citing reasons from ‘cleaning my brushes’ to ‘going for a run’. Dumbledore left soon after, and she wondered if he’d found the evening as agitating as she had. She must remember to apologise to him.

Hermione felt calm for the first time this evening. Her shoulders visibly relaxed and her heart beat slowed. She went to talk a drink from her wine glass, and then remembered how well that had gone as a stress relief last night! She checked her watch, it was past 9 O’Clock.  
It was almost night now, the sky was a deep blue and only where the sun had set was there a lighter shade. As Hermione walked into the garden she noticed that there was no moon, but the stars shinned brighter in not having to compete with the luna orb. Fairy lights lined the path’s of the garden, illuminating her way to the rose garden.   
In the darkness, the roses seemed different shades of shadow, rather than colour. Their petals were closed to the summer night’s chill, the inner hearts protected by tightly sealed folds. In the centre of the roses stood a tall figure. Hermione felt her heart speed up once again. 

“Hello Hermione,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but we are almost at the big one. The one we've all been waiting for!
> 
> Thank you for the Kudos and Bookmarks. You're an amazing audience! 
> 
> I didn't have my usual proof reader, so I apologise in advice for any mistakes. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

“Hello Hermione,” Draco said. He stood among the darkened roses, his skin and hair even paler in the starlight. He’d changed his clothes since dinner; gone were the paint stained jeans and t-shirt, to be replaced by green coloured slacks and a crisp white shirt. In the dim light, silhouetted by the roses, he looked wonderfully sexy. His hair was loose and tumbling round his shoulders. Hermione imagined that it felt like silk, smooth and luxurious in her fingers. 

“You came,” he whispered, his voice horse as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He strode over and took her hand. 

“So the note was from you?” Hermione said, the realisation hitting her like a freight train. It was him who’d sent the mysterious note, who wanted to meet her alone in this romantic place.  
His grip loosened on her hand. “Who else could it have been from?” He sounded worried.  
“Oliver? I couldn’t read the initials, too many loops and curls,” she elaborated, thinking back to the note’s cacographic signature.  
Comprehension unfolded on his face and froze his expression like a midwinter storm, “and you came here, to this garden, to see Oliver.”  
“No!” Hermione started to say, “Yes, well no. Not precisely.” She wavered under Draco’s icy stare.  
“Sure, I understand,” he said, coldly. 

He went to move past her and out of the rose garden, but she grabbed his upper arm. His muscles bunched under her touch but she increased her hold, trying to get the message across that this conversation wasn’t over.  
“If the note was from Oliver, I needed to tell him I don’t have feelings beyond friendship for him,” she explained. “I wanted it to be you,” she whispered. She hadn’t felt this way during the day, but the thought of Draco Malfoy being attracted to her was inconceivable. She slipped her hand down his firm arm and took his hand in hers. At this moment in time, she needed nothing more than for Draco to be here with her.  
Draco’s finger’s laced through her’s, but he still looked skeptical. “I slipped the note into your dressing robe this morning. When did Oliver have the opportunity to deliver the note to you?”  
“He surprised me when I was swimming today. My robe was on the side, he could have done it then,” she said, speculating.  
“He saw you in a swimming suit?” Draco said, irritated. Hermione was somewhat satisfied to note that some of the old Malfoy whine was back in his tone.  
She rolled her eyes, “it wasn’t like I invited him to! I didn’t leave him some cryptic, illegible letter saying ‘jump out at me when I’m swimming’!”  
“It wasn’t illegible,’ Draco said, sulkily defensive, “I was trying to do that wavy calligraphy writing you like so much. You know,” he looked embarrassed, “to be romantic.”  
Hermione could have laughed at his puppy dog expression, he looked so downcast and so unlike his usual confident swagger. Was this truly because of her?  
“Draco?”  
He sighed and rubbed his chin, like he was pondering a problem. “Hermione, how long have we known each other?” he inquired. His voice was calm, like he was just asking a casual question about the weather, but his eyes betrayed him. They were the colour of the sky after a downpour; a silver commotion of clouds hastening over a rain-washed azure.  
“Oh, perhaps eight years or so,” she replied.  
“And during that time, we’ve got on right? Been friends?”  
“I wouldn’t always say that Draco, you can be quite a prat. But, I will admit, I’ve learned to put up with you quite well.”  
He smiled at that, “Ok, I can be a bit of a prick. But, you know, I’ve always admired you, right?” He sounded uncertain.  
“I can’t say that I’ve often felt particularly admired by you,” Hermione admitted.  
“Well, I do. You’re the most intelligent, well-read person I know. You can talk about anything, and you have amazing opinions on everything. God, I could just sit there and listen to your voice all day.”  
She could feel herself blush. “I wouldn’t say I’m that-“  
“No, don’t put yourself down like that.” Draco interrupted, squeezing her hand. “I mean it Granger, you’re incredible. And you’re rather good looking too. But don’t expect me to say that much. You’re head is already big enough from all those books you read.”  
“Draco, thank you. I didn’t know you valued my friendship so much.”  
“Friendship. Yes, about that friendship bit, I need to talk to you about that. And before you decide to go out with Oliver.”  
“Draco, I’m not going out with Oliver,” Hermione repeated.  
“The one time,” Draco said, embittered, “I invite a girl to a romantic place and she doesn’t come to actually see me. Instead, it’s another man!”  
“Oh my god!” Hermione said, exasperated with his stupidity, “Draco will you stop going on about Oliv-“  
He kissed her. 

The last of her words were swallowed up in the kiss. His lips were pressed, unrelentingly, against hers. His hands slithered up to tighten round her waist.  
She was rooted to the spot, fixed in shock, and not able to pull back or to pull in. His hands began to meander down to her lower back, causing her flesh to goose bump. His tongue brushed over her lips, asking for an invitation in. She tentatively moved a hand up his chest, across his shoulders and curled a lock of his hair in her fingers. It felt smoother than she could have imagined. She kissed him back.  
She heard his breath hitch, as she tentatively moved her lips under his. She arched her body into his, and slipped her hands out of his hair to lock them round his neck. She could feel his rapid heart beat, through her thin dress and all the way into her chest.  
Draco made a low groan and pulled out of the kiss. “God, Granger,” he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck.

As Draco’s mouth started to kiss the line of her neck and work his way dangerously lower, Hermione’s mind came up with a strange thought - which tended to happen after revelations. Her thought’s drifted of a line to John Keats’ poem ‘The Eve of St Agnes’:  
‘Into her dream he melted, as the rose blendeth its odour with the violet – Solution sweet.’* Draco feather kisses along her collar bone and she gave a low moan. ‘Solution Sweet’, indeed. 

“I need you”, Draco said.

Hermione knew she was going to be in for a long night!

 

* Quote from: Keats, John. ‘Eve of St Agnes’ in ‘John Keats: Poems Selected by Andrew Motion’ (Poet to Poet Book 11). Faber & Faber. Stanza XXXVI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally happening!!
> 
> If you want the full on sex scene and all the details, I've posted in on a separate story called 'You Make me Shiver snd Shake: Chapter 9 and 3/4s : The Explicit Scenes'. Check my profile to find it.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991029
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos for this story! As ever, comment if you want to know anything ;)


	10. Chapter 10

The next day, Hermione woke to find Draco’s long hair tickling her nose. She was pressed into his chest, his arm wrapped possessively around the crook of her waist.  
He had amazingly not snored the whole night.   
She slowly sat up, trying to not wake him. When asleep Draco looked so young and carefree. His pale eyelashes fanned against his cheeks and his mouth was soft and open, rather than the thin grin he normally wore.   
It must be quite late in the morning, because the room’s curtains couldn’t stop the sun’s rays from filtering through, dimly lighting the room. Now she could finally get a good look at his room. She hadn’t had much opportunity last night, what with one thing and another. She smirked to herself.  
Like her’s, there was the large four poster bed and a few delicate looking chairs scattered over the stone floor. On the other side, opposite the foot of the bed, was a large fireplace. The fireplace was embedded with small tiles in shades of navy blue, the subtle differences in colour gave an impression like the waves of the sea. Tints of blue that together made a complete picture.  
On her side of the bed was a table. Typically Draco, had a jenga-like stack of paper and sketch books. On top of the pile was a dirty pencil case. She carefully picked up the case and opened it. Inside was an assortment of pencils, markers and charcoal sticks. Hermione’s eyes jumped from the pencil case to the stack of paper. Maybe she should follow Dumbledore’s advice and try and ‘rediscover’ her art talent.   
Leaning against one of the posters at the foot of the bed she studied Draco, trying to follow the lines of his arms and hands with her eyes before committing them to paper. There was something very satisfying about the first stroke of the charcoal against the rough paper. The spatter of dust and the permanence of that thick black line. Her eyes flitted to Draco once more, he hadn’t moved a muscle. What a good model he was turning out to be.

It was over an hour before Draco stirred. During that time he’d obligingly changed sleeping poses three times, allowing her to sketch quite a range of his movements and body. Her work lay around her, her quick draftsmanship capturing the pose if not the details of Draco.   
Draco’s hand moved out, patting her side of the bed. He pawed the cool mattress a few more times.  
“Morning sunshine,” Hermione said, smiling at the befuddled look that was creeping across his face.   
Draco mumbled, his face still pressed into the bed.  
“I didn’t catch that?” She said, trying to make her voice as perky as possible.  
“Shuuuush,” Draco groaned, “why you so awake?”  
“I slept marvellously well.”   
“I’m glad you did,” he grumbled, “you snore!”  
“No I don’t!” she said, indignantly. He was the infamous snorer here, not her!  
“Yes, you did. I thought I was going to be savaged in the night,” Draco said, finally sitting up and looking at her through bleary eyes. “You sounded like a dog with indigestion.”  
“That’s oddly specific?”   
“You didn’t have a dog like old Snuffles. Lovely beast, but couldn’t have breathed heavier.”  
“And I remind you of this dog?” she asked, her tone chilly.   
Draco froze. He seemed to be aware he’d made a rookie error.  
“No!” he started to backtrack, “not you, just say- just the sound you make.”  
“I’ll bear that in mind.”  
Draco rubbed his stubbled chin with the flat of his hand, “I’m sure you will, and make me pay for it another time.” He seemed to notice the mass of papers over the sheets. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up the closest piece of paper.  
“Nothing,” she said, quickly gathering the papers up.  
“Is this me?”  
“Oh, they can’t be very good if you have to ask that,” Hermione said, feeling deflated.  
“No, they’re good! Really good. I just didn’t realise how sexy I looked sleeping,” he said, smirking at her. “I’ll have to pose for you more often. But I do insist on both of us being naked.”  
“London’s new art nudist sensation,” she quoted Rita’s headline at him.   
“Oh god do not remind me of that woman!” Draco said. “Particularly when I have you in my bed,” he coyly smiled at her, “who I should be paying more attention too.”  
He crept over the bed towards her, like a tiger stalking his prey.   
“Draco, we should get up. The painting.”  
“Damn the painting,” he said, pulling her towards him.  
“But…but,” she tried to argue, but his lips were moving over the sensitive skin of her neck.   
“No buts’ Granger. I need some artistic inspiration from you.”  
He pounced. 

It was a while before Hermione could move again. Between last night and this morning she was wondering if she’d ever make it out of bed again. Did she even want to?  
“Oh Granger, you can stimulate a man’s imagination,” Draco suggestively said, playing with the curls of her hair.  
“The wicked side of his imagination,” she commented, prodding him playfully in the chest.  
“You wound me,” he mocked.  
She gave a short laugh and rolled out of the bed.   
Draco gave a moan of displeasure.  
“Do you have to go yet?” he whined, “there are so many more things we could try? It’ll be educational!”  
“Nice try,” she said dryly. She was looking under the piles of discarded clothes. “Draco,” she said, a accusing note in her voice, “where is my underwear?”  
He smirked at her. “It’s mine now.”  
“Malfoy!”  
“Ooohh I'm scared, she’s moved back to surnames now!” he teased. “I need them as proof, to show to people who don’t believe we shagged.”  
“Give them back!”  
“No. You have loads of pairs, I just have this one.”  
“You’re such an ass,” she frowned, and grabbing a paint covered t-shirt from the floor she rammed it over her head. “I’m off to get more clothes,” she announced, “lets hope I don’t run into Oliver looking like this.”  
He was up in a flash.  
“Don’t move,” he commanded, thrusting his legs into a pair of dirty jeans, “I’ll get you more clothes.” He legged it out of the room.  
She gave a contented smile. She could get used to a cooperative Malfoy. All you needed to know was which leaver to pull. 

Ten minutes later, Draco sauntered back into the room holding some of her clothes and wearing a Cheshire cat grin. Hermione immediately felt suspicious.   
“Here you go Granger,” he said, passing her the bundle.  
He’d brought her one evening dress, a light pink chiffon number that she’d had for almost a decade; that showed how much use she’d gotten out of it. She slid it over her head and adjusted the puffy skirt. She looked around to find a pair of pants, wondering if she’d dropped them on the floor. The it hit her.  
“Malfoy, where is my underwear?” She used her strict teacher voice.  
Draco began to giggle like a little child. “I’ve hidden them.”  
“All of them?”  
“Yep. For the rest of the trip you won’t be wearing any undergarments.” He seemed remarkably pleased with himself.   
“Fine.” She stormed over to his messy suitcase. “Fine,” she repeated, rummaging through the case till she found them. “Neither will you!” She clutched all his boxers to her chest. “I’m going, and I’m taking these with me.”  
He smirked again. “Fine by me, I don’t mind going commando. The less clothing to take off the better.”  
She stomped to the door and opened it. She turned, silhouetted by the open door, and remarked, “I’m sure Dumbledore will see it that way too, when I tell him!”  
She closed the door, and was satisfied to hear the thump of the pillow hitting it. 

By the time Hermione walked into the dining room, breakfast had been cleared away but there was a platter of fruit in the centre of the table. She grabbed an orange and a banana. She was surprised at how little she was craving coffee. Normally if she hadn’t had her fix by now she’d be a shaking mess. Ah, the pain of the modern day addiction.   
Hermione was just beginning to peel the orange when Oliver came in. She felt a pang of guilt. Oliver. Nice, handsome, steady Oliver. Who she was not attracted to at all. She had to tell him, before Draco did something neanderthal-like.  
“Hi Oliver, how are you?” she said, sunnily.  
“Grand,” he said, smiling at her, “why are you up so late. Have you seen Draco?”  
She couldn’t stop the blush from flooding to her cheeks.  
“Oh,” Oliver said, putting two and two together.   
“Oliver, I should have ex-“  
“No, it’s fine. Good in fact,” he said, genuinely not sounding upset.  
Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about Oliver’s sincerely unaffected attitude. I mean she sort of wanted him to be a bit disappointed. At least a bit surprised. What was she thinking, she was a terrible person!  
“Good?” She questioned, biting savagery into an orange segment.   
“Ah sorry, I’ve just realised how that sounded,” he said, “not that your not a good looking lass. But Draco has kept looking like he’s going to try and beat me up every time you were mentioned. To be honest, I like the guy. I would hate to have to knock him out.”  
Hermione laughed.  
“In a battle of fists I think you might win,” she said.  
“Aye, but he has won the war,” Oliver admitted.  
Hermione fell silent, keeping her attention on her orange.  
“Are you coming to see the painting today? It’s looking more like me now and less like a Morph.” He asked, giving her an encouraging smile.  
“Yes, I’d love to see it. Hopefully Draco might let me into the studio now.”  
She started unpeeling the banana.  
“Lets hope so. Maybe you could work some feminine whiles on him otherwise,” Oliver suggested, sitting opposite her. 

Hermione was about to bite into her banana when Draco swaggered in.   
“Granger, you’d better not be about to eat that phallic shaped fruit in front of young Oliver,” Draco called out. He hurried over and snatched the banana from her.  
He took a huge bite. “There, mine now,” he mumbled, his mouth full of mushy banana. Charming. “Have an apple,” he in-articulated, passing her the fruit, “much less fattening.”  
Oliver started to crack up.  
She begrudgingly took a chunk out of the apple. Bastard.   
“Will Hermione be joining us in the studio?” Oliver asked, breaking the glaring contest between her and Malfoy.  
“No.” Draco ruled.  
“But Draco,” she said, trying to keep her voice soft, “I’d love to see you in action.” She fluttered her eyelashes, “you get so impassioned when you paint. It’s so exciting to watch.”  
“I know what you’re doing,” Draco commented, his mouth full of banana, “but luckily for you I like it. Yes, you may watch me paint. But only me mind. I don’t want your eyes wondering to that spectacle of masculine perfection over there.” He waved his thumb in the direction of Oliver. Oliver looked like he was about to wet himself from laughing.  
“I promise,” she said with sickening sweetness. But what were promises for, if not to be a bit broken. 

* Morph is a clay humanoid creature from 90s British art shows. He may have traveled across the pond but I’m not sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 9 and 3/4s ;). Thank for for the continued amazing response. It's lovely to know through hits, kudos and comments, that readers are enjoying your work. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	11. Chapter 11

Already half complete, Draco’s painting was magnificent. He’d shifted his colour pallet from pastels, to bronzed reds and oranges with the occasional slash of gold for definition. In the painting, Oliver looked like an mythological god victoriously ascending from the bowels of Hades. To be honest, even in real life he looked pretty darn good. But don’t tell Draco that!  
The painting’s background was, so far, a crisp blue sky, complimenting the earthy colours he’d used to portray Oliver.   
“I still have texturing to complete and the definition on the torso, not to mention the background. I was thinking of trying a Turner; leaving if it was sunset or sunrise indiscernible to the viewer,” Draco articulated.   
“Draco, even you are not a match for William Turner,” Hermione said, grinning at him.   
“To be as Turner,” Draco said, and in mock wistfulness he pressed one hand to his heart and the other to his forehead.   
“We can only dream,” she drolly commented, “please continue.”   
“Oliver’s face is pretty much complete,” Draco confessed, as if admitting some sort of completion offended his artistic temperament.   
Perhaps some of Draco’s recent feelings of resentment had been transposed into his version of Oliver’s face, because Oliver’s countenance was harder than in real life. His brows were harsh slices and the expression in his eyes was powerfully bleak; as if he’d seen hell and back.   
“He’s made me look a right bastard, hasn’t he,” Oliver said, considering the painting.  
“I capture the human soul in my work,” Draco said with false imperiousness. He and Oliver certainly seemed to be getting on better since her and Draco had…well.   
“Yes, I noticed that,” Oliver said, “with your last model you really captured her massive bust. Insightful work.”  
Hermione started to giggle.  
“You,” Draco pompously said, pointing his finger at Oliver, “your opinion doesn’t count, I have objectified you now. And you,” he jerked another finger at her, “you are my manager. Fawn over my brilliance, not Oliver’s jokes.”  
“Or anything else of his?” She teased.  
“Definitely not!” He adamantly agreed.

“I’m gratified to see the painting is in such excellent order,” Dumbledore said, entering the echoey ballroom. “As seem all of your spirits,” he added, slowly walking towards them.  
Hermione noticed Draco shuffle uncomfortably. She quickly brushed his hand over his, momentarily squeezing his fingers. He stilled.  
“Aye, its going to be grand work once it’s complete,” Oliver readily agreed. Turning to Draco he asked, “shall we start?”  
“Yes,” Draco agreed. He addressed her and Dumbledore, “Well if you two would like to pop off-“  
“No, I think I’ll stay,” Hermione interrupted. “What about you,” she said to Dumbledore, “will you stay for a while too.”  
Dumbledore’s eyes glittered, and just for a second she could have sworn he winked at her. “Thank you for the suggestion. I think I will observe for a time.”

Hermione found a couple of gilded chairs and they settled themselves in to watched Draco.  
From where they sat, they could observe both Draco and Oliver almost side by side. The men looked starkly different. Oliver was draped in a loose silk sheet like a Grecian hero of old whereas, Draco’s slim form was only accentuated by his dark skinny jeans.   
“Hermione,” Dumbledore said in an audible whisper, “will you look at the flick of Mr Malfoy’s wrist on that last stroke, what skilful flare he has.”  
“He does indeed have quite a grip on that brush,” Hermione agreed. She could see Draco’s face was beginning to flush.  
“And while I do appreciate Mr Malfoy’s leaner frame, I find, for this painting, Oliver’s impressive bulk just splendid. Don’t you think so Miss Granger,” Dumbledore assessed. His mouth was curled in a benevolent smile, but behind his spectacles Hermione noted the mischief in his blue eyes.  
“In this light, Oliver,” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “certainly looks very impressive.” Draco’s face was now turning scarlet. “But I rather like parts of Malfoy’s body more.” Even she was blushing, and the knowing look Dumbledore was giving was almost too much to bear.  
“And what parts are these Miss Granger?” Dumbledore politely asked, as if he was simply inquiring the time of day.   
There was a splintering sound and Draco loudly cursed. He’s snapped his brush in half, and the broken half clattered to the stone floor.   
“Damn it! That brush’s handle was bespoke,” Draco angrily yelled.  
Draco turned his, almost deific, wrath towards where her and Dumbledore sat.  
“If you two are quite finished with your dick comparisons,” he vociferously said, “I would like to continue with this painting - in silence!” But he modified his tone and quickly added, “Sir” in Dumbledore’s direction. Draco then sharply turned his head to glare back at the painting and adjusted his clasp on the now, much shorter, brush head.   
“I feel,” Dumbledore said, rising gracefully, and addressing her, “that we should depart. May I show you the long gallery?”  
Hermione had no idea what was important about the long gallery, but she quickly took his proffered arm and hurried from the room. She glanced back at Draco and Oliver. Draco was hunched over the painting like a giant bat. Oliver just looked like he was desperately trying not to laugh. 

Once out in the corridor with the ballroom’s door firmly closed, Hermione started to say to Dumbledore, “I’m sorry for Draco’s-“  
“It is quite alright Miss Granger. I was being rather naughty,” Dumbledore said.  
Hermione knew one thing from his last sentence, and that was Dumbledore should never be aloud to say the word ‘naughty’ out loud. Ever again. In fact, no one with that amount of white beard should ever say the word ‘naughty’. Then she remembered Santa Claus.   
Damn it!  
“Monsieur,” Hermione said, trying to get the image of Santa Claus plus a ‘naughty’ list out of her head, “what is in the long gallery?”  
“Why my dear, it’s where I house my art collection,” Dumbledore kindly replied.

The long gallery was accurately named, it was very long. The ceiling was high and where it joined the wall were set small windows, cleverly lighting the room but not allowing any direct sunlight to fall on the artwork. Lining each of the long walls were paintings, photos, watercolours and small sketches. There didn’t seem to be any preference or main genre to the collection as she could see several landscapes, a few French looking party scenes and a couple of portraits of women. She recognised the style of some artists, but she was surprised to not see any of the famous or well known works she thought Dumbledore had collected. She said as much to him.   
“I donate many of the paintings to museums in Europe and Britain. I see no reason to hide them away for only my enjoyment. Art was meant to be looked at, part of what makes it art, is what the viewer brings to the piece in their own head,” he explained. “However, I will admit I keep some of the small originals and sketches. I can’t really be called an art connoisseur without any art, can I?” He smiled at her and lead her down the room until he stopped in front of a small watercolour and pencil illustration.   
The sketch was of two people, a man and a woman, standing in a position that suggested an embrace. The man was tall and fair and his eyes were cast down, looking at the woman’s dark hair and pale face. However, while their sublime faces were substantially drawn, their bodies shapes were diluted by the wetted pencil and dark watercolour dots and tints, leaving only hints of arms and shoulders and the fluttering of cloth.  
“I feel that you would appreciate this sketch,” Dumbledore said to her.  
“Who is it by?”  
“Charles Rennie Mackintosh,” he replied.  
“Oh of course, I should have seen his style in the penciled circles,” Hermione muttered.  
“It is titled ‘Fairies’. I have always perceived this to be one of Mackintosh’s more romantic works. Not whimsical as such, more like a inquiry into fair tenderness.” *   
Her eyes lingered on the long face of the man and the devotion advocated in his thin mouth and lowered lashes as he looked at the woman.  
“While we are on the subject of sketches, how are your pursuits into art going?” Dumbledore said.  
“Well,” she admitted, looking away from the painting and into his kindly face, “I have done some small sketches. Nothing like Draco’s work,” she quickly added, “just a bit of rough portrait work.”  
“I would very much like to see them?” Dumbledore said, “Why don’t you show me?”

She walked back into the long gallery 10 minutes later, her drawings from that morning clasped protectively against her chest. It was nerve racking, after all these years of no practice, showing someone with Dumbledore’s background her work. She shyly held out her work to him.  
He gently flicked through the stack, his eyes darting over the sheets taking in her perceptions of Draco’s face.  
“You’re fondness for Mr Malfoy is very apparent. Your pencil lines soften whenever you illustrate his face.”  
She went red; she would have never shown them to Dumbledore if she’d realised how obvious her adoration of Draco would be!  
“Would you consider expanding these sketches into larger works?” He mildly inquired.  
“Of Draco? I would have to talk to him, see if he would mind?” Hermione said, the blush still staining her cheeks.  
“Well, say Mr Malfoy was not adverse to it. Would you want to develop these works?”  
“If I had the time, I would try-“  
“No Miss Granger, do not think of the time or trying. Would you to?”  
Hermione thought of the hours it would take, mapping out Draco’s form onto canvas. Working with paints again, polishing up her techniques. So many blissful hours of work.  
“I would love to,” she confessed.  
“Now that has been established, I’ll commission your first work,” Dumbledore announced.   
“But…but my job?” Hermione stammered, hardly daring to believing what he was saying.   
“I’m sure Sirius can give you a few weeks leave,” Dumbledore briskly said.

Hermione felt like she was walking on air as she breezed into the ballroom. Draco’s back was to her and he was speedily smoothing a small brush over the canvas. She could see he’d achieved a lot during the day as the best half of Oliver’s body seemed to have come together, his chest and arms looking lifelike.   
“Draco,” she said in a stage whisper.  
Draco turned. He looked surprised to see her there with a huge smile splitting across her glowing face. She beckoned him over.  
“Oliver, shall we take a break?” Draco said, wiping the paint off his hands with a rag, “I think my manager has something wrong with her face.”  
Hermione rolled her eyes at him. He grinned in reply and advanced on her.   
“What’s up Granger, you look happy to see me,” he greeted.  
“Not to see you,” she playfully scolded.  
“I think we’ll have to change that,” Draco whispered and lead her round the corner, out of site of the ballroom.   
Draco pressed his lips to her’s and pushed her up against the corridor’s stone wall. She shivered as her back made contact with the cool slabs. He ran a hand up her arm and cupped the back of her neck, his fingers massaging the nape. She kissed him back, and automatically opened her mouth to him. He ran his tongue along hers, causing her to softly moan. His other hand was sliding down her lower back and he stopped just above her backside. She could tell he was dying to go further down, but she had views on what you did and did not do in public places. She smiled against his lips and pulled back.  
“Hi,” she said.  
“Hi to you. What has made your mouth do that weird thing? I think it’s called a smile. Doesn’t look right on you, an annoyed frown suits you.”  
“Shush, I want to tell you something.”  
“Go on, I’m all ears Granger,” he replied, “well not actually all ears’.”  
“Oh my will you shut up,” she laughed and lightly swatted him on the ear.  
“Ouch! That’s abuse in the workplace! I could sue you for that.”  
“Then expect a counter suit of sexual misconduct,” she threw back.  
Draco seemed to pounder on that for a second, “Ok, fair enough. I did shag you against a wall last night.”  
She snorted, but she still blushed from his mention of last night.   
“Go on then Granger, tell me what happened. Before,” and he pressed his face close to her’s, “I have you up against this wall as well.”  
“Dumbledore has offered me a commission!” Her words came out in a rush.  
He looked confused, like he hadn’t quite caught all her garbled words. “Dumbledore wants you to paint?” He asked. She nodded, and he smiled brightly at her, “That’s fantastic, how did that happen? What does he want you to paint?”  
“I was showing him the work I did this morning,” she started to explain but stopped as all the colour left Draco’s face.  
“Oh god no. He wants you to paint me, doesn’t he?” He said, his face motionless in shock.  
She paused, she’d intended to break that bit to him gently. “Just a bit,” she admitted.   
“Naked?”  
“Some skin would not go amiss.”  
Draco sighed and tilted his head back. Hermione held her breath, she could practically already hear him refusing.   
“I’m going to regret this,” he groaned. “Fine, I’ll do it.”  
She squealed and he winced at the high pitched sound.  
“But,” he said, sternly, “there are conditions.”  
“Anything,” she said breathlessly, “what are they?”  
“I haven’t thought them all up yet,” he conceded, “but I will compile a list. You naked and covered in chocolate will be on there.”  
She just beamed at him. She couldn’t believe he’d so easily agreed to do this for her. Affection swelled in her chest and her eyes welled, she felt so emotionally overwhelmed.  
“Oh no, why are you crying?” Draco said, panicking, “I was joking about the naked chocolate bit! Ok I wasn’t joking, but we don’t have to do that!”  
The tears fell from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “No, I’m not sad. I’m so happy, thank you Draco.”  
“Thank god,” Draco sighed in relief, “don’t do that to me. I got worried that I’d been a prat again.”  
“You’re always a prat,” Hermione commented, wiping away the few tears.  
“True,” Draco accepted, shrugging. “Does this mean the sex with chocolate is still on?”  
She just laughed in response.  
“You know,” Draco said, his eyes going a vivid grey, “news like this deserves to be celebrated. Let me take you somewhere tomorrow.”  
“Like a date? What about the painting?”  
“Yes, a date. Oh, the painting will only take two more days, I can get it done with my eyes closed.”  
“As long as Dumbledore doesn’t mind,” she said.  
“I’ll talk to him,” Draco reassured.  
“Is that wise?”  
“Look, that guy wants you to paint a picture of my beautiful face. I’m sure I can wrangle a day off from him. Plus,” he added, cupping her chin in his hands, “there is somewhere I really want to take you."

* Fairies, by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. 1898. Pencil and Watercolour. Part of the Glasgow School of Art’s Collection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the hits, kudos and comments - I love hearing what people have found funny!! It's so great! :D I am manically smiling right now ;).
> 
> So when I was walking through my home town yesterday and I saw this group of guys outside a restaurant. And oh boy, they all looked like they could break my heart and every other girls’ in a three mile radius. But what was weird, was that one of them was exactly like sexed up long haired Draco Malfoy. Oh Lord, I wish I’d got a photo!
> 
> Chapter 12 will be a long one, and probably quite fluffy


	12. Chapter 12

“Granger! Granger! Wake up,” he called, shaking Hermione’s shoulders.  
“What,” she said, sleepily. Opening her eyes she looked up into the smirking face of Draco Malfoy.   
“Granger, get up!” He yelled again.  
“Why?” She asked, sitting up, “What have you done now?”  
“I’ve done nothing! Ok, that’s not strictly true, I’ve done lots of things. Many of them to you last night. My god that sound you made when I suck-“  
“Thank you Malfoy!” Hermione quickly said, and she got out of his bed. She looked around for her robe but it was nowhere to be seen, unsurprisingly given Draco’s preference she wear nothing. She gave Draco a suspicious look, he was far too happy this morning. “What’s the matter? Why do you look like you’re hyper on sugar?”  
“I have a surprise for you,” he eagerly said.  
“Oh no, it’s not the same surprise as last night is it?” She asked, genuinely worried.  
“Which surprise was that Granger?”  
“Well you know, when you…,” she petered off and did some hand gestures.  
“Yes?”  
She moved closer and whispered quickly in his ear.  
“That surprise,” he said, now enlightened, “no it’s not that sort of surprise. But I would be happy to replicate that particular position with you any time.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in an alarming fashion.  
“No, no. I’m fine for the moment thank you,” she stiffly said. Stiff was the word of the day. She wouldn’t be walking normally for a week.  
“Anyway what was I saying, all your dirty talk has put me right off my stroke. Which is very much what I’d like to do to your-“  
“Draco!”  
“Ah you did it again. Put something on woman, I can’t get my thoughts straight with you standing there with all your jiggly bits on display. It’s like having my face pressed up against a cake shop window!”  
“I swear, one day,” she muttered and she picked up one of his shirts from the back of a chair.   
“That’s much better. The little grey cells can start to work now. And the first order of the day is,” Draco paused and pulled her closer by the loose fabric of the shirt. He planted a firm kiss on her unexpected mouth. “Now that’s done,” he said as he pulled away, “I can tell you my surprise plan.”  
“Doesn’t that negate the point of a surprise, if you tell me?” She asked, readjusting the shirt which had mysteriously opened during the kiss.   
“Fine I won’t tell you,” Draco said, flicking his long hair dramatically over his shoulder. “But go to your room and get dressed,” he commanded, shoeing her in the direction of the door, “quickly now. Don’t make me chase you.” He gave her a wolfish smile. She got out the room sharpish. He’d given her that exact look in the early hours of this morning and she hadn’t got back to sleep for over an hour!

She met Draco down the stairs and was just about to enter the dining room.   
“No time for breakfast Granger,” Draco briskly said, taking her by the arm and leading her away from the food and the coffee!  
“But, I’m hungry? And need coffee,” she whined. Unfortunately her addiction to coffee hand come back with a vengeance.   
“I’ve packed you something,” Draco said, with what he probably thought was reassurance. Hermione was not convinced.  
“Where is Oliver?”  
“Oliver’s taken the hired car and gone walking round some national park. He mentioned something about there not being peacocks up mountains?”  
She sniggered. “But, if Oliver’s got the car then how are we getting there?” She asked, as Draco walked them out the front door and into the courtyard.  
“Ah, your powers of perception do you justice. You have hit the nub of the problem,” Draco jovially said. “Luckily I have already sorted it. We’re borrowing Dumbledore’s car.”   
Hermione was impressed, Draco really seemed to have thought through their whole day out.

“That Old Bastard!” Draco cried out, when he saw Dumbledore’s ‘car’. Hermione couldn’t help agree with the sentiment, if not the exact phraseology.   
Calling that contraption a ‘car’, was an insult to the name of car. It was old, rusty and looked like the car from the musical ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. It seemed like, if you turned the engine on it would certainly Bang Bang! She didn’t know what would happen to the Chitty Chitty part.   
“Right Granger,” Draco said, squaring up to the car like it was a wild animal, “stand back. I’m going to try and get this bucket going.” He passed her his bag and descended on the car.  
Draco turned the key in the car’s ignition and it gave shudder and a croak; but with a splitter it started. Draco adjusted the mirrors and tried the peddles. “Get in Granger, I don’t think it’s going to explode on us.”  
She got into the car with some trepidation. She’d never experienced Draco’s driving, but if the points on his licence were anything to go by, then he liked to drive really, really fast.   
“Don’t look so worried,” he said, “I am a fantastic driver. Now, check the bag. There’s a flask of coffee and some toast in there. And try not to get crumbs everywhere!”  
She swatted him on the arm. 

They’d been driving for about half and hour, and during that time Hermione had been happily munching. Draco had been trying to coax the car to go above 60 mph, but he wasn’t succeeding. Something she was very thankful for.  
“Draco, where are we going?” She asked, tucking the empty flask back into the bag.  
“It’s a surprise. You said you didn’t want to know,” Draco reminded, keeping his eyes on the road.  
“Yes, but now I do.”  
“Tough titties.”  
“What kind of expression is ‘tough titties’!”  
“In this context, it means be quiet and let me concentrate on these damn bendy roads.”  
After that, Hermione didn’t say anything for a while. Well, until her curiosity got the better of her, “Draco, where are we?”  
“You’ll see soon nosey. We’re almost there.”

They’d been driving up and up along long chalky roads. When they reached a rather unimpressive car park, Draco pulled the car over into a space. He turned to her, he was beaming.  
“Out you pop,” he said, opening his door, “we just have to walk up that road.”  
She grumbled something about gentlemen but got out of the car. Draco came and took her hand and lead her up the dull looking road.  
When they’d walked for a few minutes Hermione got a glimpse of a building through the trees.   
“Oooh,” she gasped.   
“I knew you’d like it,” Draco said, smirking. “Welcome Hermione, to Fontfroide Abby.”

Fontfroide Abby, or Abbaye de Fontroide to use the French, was a large monastery, founded in 1093. The Abby was made up of long rectangular buildings which enclosed a large cloister. Most of the Abby’s main buildings were made of stacked grey stone, but the roof tiles were coloured a lovely terracotta red. Several stained glass windows were embedded in the buildings thick walls. Draco lead her through stone arches, past delicately formed wrought iron work and through vaulted passageways.   
“Now before we visit the famous cloister or their very romantic rose garden,” said Draco, “I want to take you to the library.”  
She gave a small squeak of excitement.  
“See I just knew the library would elicit that response. I would be a happy man if you’d make the same noises in bed!”   
“Shut it Malfoy, I want to enjoy the moment.”

The Abby’s library was unique. Not a huge room but it had been decorated unlike any other room Hermione had seen. On opposite walls were two large panels, painted in a Symbolist style.   
“They’re by Odilon Redon,” Draco whispered in her ear. “That one,” he pointed to the panel decorated in black, white and gold, “is called ‘Night’. But my personal favourite is the other painting called ‘Day’.”  
The painting ‘Day’ was like a fantasy dream, an amalgamation of blues, pinks and yellows. The background seemed to be a subtle representation of a sunny day overlooking the mountains- but who can truly tell with symbolism. The foreground was much easier to decipher; ferns, leaves and flowers all depicted in bright blues and reds. Hermione felt as if Redon had captured the sensory explosion of being out in nature on a summer’s day.   
“How did you find this?” Hermione asked, holding his hands in her’s and her eyes shinning up at him.   
Draco span her, so her back was pressed against him and her arms crossed over her torso. He moved his head down so that he could softly speak in her ear, “It gets better, you’ll love the story behind this. In the early Twentieth Century, artist’s and collector’s Gustave and Madeleine Fayet bought the Abby in auction, to save it from being stripped of it’s worth. They then started restoring it, and filling it with their collection. Gustave and Redon became friends and they decided to decorate this room together. Perhaps,” and his voice went very low, “you and I could do something similar one day.”  
“What, like Gustave and Redon? Or Gustave and his wife.”  
“Both?” He said, his tone impossibly quiet.   
“Draco, what are you saying?” She asked, her heart beating very fast now. She turned, trying to get a good look at his face, but he kept his gaze solidly on the painting behind her.  
“I…I,” he started, a furrow appearing between his eyes. Still not looking at her, he cupped the back of her head in his hand and pressed her into an embrace. Her head rested onto his chest and gently rose and fell with his breathing.  
“I meant nothing by it Granger, it’s not the right time,” he faintly spoke. Taking her by the shoulders he pulled her back, so he could now look into her eyes. He looked strangely cheerful, like he was forcing himself to be lighthearted. “I don’t know about you Granger, but I bet they’ve got some paintings of long dead naked women lying around.”  
She playfully punched him on the arm, “you and naked women!”  
“Hey it’s art! Being a pervert at naked women doesn’t count in art. Anyway, the only real life naked woman I’m interested in is you.”  
“How romantic of you,” she sarcastically said, raising an eyebrow.   
“Talking of romance why don’t we check out the gardens. I’ve hear they make their own wine here as well. You certainly need to sample that! Drunk Hermione is highly amusing.”  
And before she could ponder on his weird behaviour any longer, he marched her out of the library. 

It was late afternoon and they were back in the terrifying car. Draco had given her a choice, either she partake in the wine tasting or she would have to drive them to Narbonne for dinner, while he got merry with the wine. In the end it hadn’t been a difficult decision. Her head now lolled against Draco’s shoulder as he drove them to the commune of Narbonne where he’d made supper arrangements.   
Although the drive was long, when they arrived in Narbonne her head still felt fuzzy from the effect of the wine. Dang it, why did the Abby have to make wine. Why couldn’t it have been cake or something non-alcoholic! At least cake would have just made her gain weight, it would not be causing her to imagine Draco’s naked body right now!  
“Why don’t we just skip dinner and go back to the chateau,” Hermione said, managing to not slur her words. You had to take joy in these small victories.  
He quickly glanced down at her, then fixed his eyes back on the road, “Granger, you’d be blushing right now if you could see the look you’re giving me.”  
“No I wouldn’t blush! I’m a woman of experience and, not exactly sin, but certainly something that shouldn’t be discussed in a church.” She giggled.  
“You we’re not this bad the last time you got tipsy. What has happened to you- woo-“ he started, as she’d slipped her hand up his thigh, “Hermione, get off. I do not want to crash this car!” He sounded fairly angry now.  
“Then pull over,” she wheedled, her voice going very high pitched.   
“You sit quietly now. God, I’m beginning to appreciate how difficult it is being the grown up in this relationship, I much prefer being the child.”  
“Fine,” and she slouched back into her seat and crossed her arms.  
“When we get to the restaurant I’ll give you a present,” Draco said, trying to placate her.   
“What type of present?” She asked, in spite of herself.  
“Just a little present.”  
“You don’t normally describe your dick as ‘little’ Draco.”  
“I’m not talking about my- you are uncomfortably horny Hermione,” said Draco, his hands gripping the steering wheel a bit harder.   
“Now you know how it feels to be teased.”  
“I do not tease.”  
“Yes you do, you’re a sexual tease Mr Malfoy,” she chortled and snorted. Surprised at the sound she’d made, she put her hand in front of her mouth.  
“That was a very attractive sound. You’re right, I feel really turned on after hearing that.”  
“Just drive Draco,” Hermione said, glowering at him. 

Once in Narbonne, Draco half dragged, half carried her to the restaurant. Off the shore of the Mediterranean Sea, Narbonne was an ancient port established in Roman times. Draco headed Hermione towards Narbonne’s central Canal, Canal de la Robine, which ran through the city. Hermione would have probably found this all fascinating, if she hadn’t felt quite so woozy.  
Once at the restaurant Draco signalled a waiter and plonked Hermione down onto a wicker chair. There was some quiet talking between the waiter and Draco. The waiter nodded and looked at Hermione.   
“Right Hermione,” Draco said, cupping her chin in his hand so he could look at her, “this chappy here is going to keep an eye on you while run an errant. Hopefully in that time you’ll be feeling more sober. To keep you occupied here is a book,” he spoke like he would to a small child, very slowly and articulately. He handed her a slim volume titled, ‘The History and Provenance of Narbonne’. “This ought to keep to occupied and out of trouble. Drink lots of water. God, and remind me to never encourage you to drink on an empty stomach again.” With that he handed the waiter a wad of Euros and left. 

If Hermione had know how the next 48 hours were going to pan out, she would have told Draco to stuff his book up his own arse! 

 

Note: Fontfroide Abby is a real place and all the details and art are based on the Abby’s history.


	13. Chapter 13

Draco arrived back at the restaurant 30 minutes later. He looked a bit flushed and his eyes were darting around looking at the other patrons, but he gave her a broad smile as he sat down opposite her.  
“What were you up to?” Hermione asked, slightly put out by him abandoning her.   
“This and that Granger,” he said, taking a long drink of water.  
“Where is my promised present?” She said, noticing that he wasn’t carrying anything.  
“That’s on hold for the moment. I know it’s difficult, but try and abate your natural curiosity. All will be revealed soon.” He avoided her suspicious glances and pointedly looked at the menu.  
“I got board of waiting so I ordered for you,” she said, taking the menu from him and closing it.   
Draco gave her a worried look, “you didn’t order snails did you?”  
“Unfortunately they didn’t have them on the menu, otherwise you would be tucking into a hearty plate of snails.”  
“Not frog legs’ either?”  
“No, you’re having a steak.”  
“Ah you beautiful woman. How could I ever doubt your food choices!” Draco said, patting her, patronisingly, on top of the head. “I presume you’d like to use my studio?” He asked, throwing her off balance.  
“Sorry what?” She said, confused.  
He snapped a bread stick and passed her the bigger half. “For you’re commission, I presume you’d like to borrow my studio?”  
“But won’t you need it?”  
“Not if I’m modelling for you. While I am very good with my hands, even I am not capable of seductively modelling and painting at the same time.” He winked at her. “Although, for you, I’d be willing to try.”   
“Thank you Draco,” she was genuinely surprised that he’d given her access to his precious studio.  
“I really am so proud of you,” he said, brushing his finger across her cheek. “But,” he added, smirking once more, “you can’t touch my paints or brushes. I’m very selective over who gets to handle my brushes.”  
“Not even little old me,” she asked and pulled a sad face.  
“Not even you Granger. Especially when you’re pulling such an awful expression!”  
“I was trying to pout,” she said reproachfully.  
“Well don’t. There are not many things that don’t suit you, but pouting is one of them. You’re far too naturally sincere to need to use feminine charms.”  
“That was practically a compliment wasn’t it?” She asked, crunching on the bread stick.  
“You know, it just might have been,” he grinned. 

For dessert, they were sharing a bowl of gelato. Well, they weren’t exactly sharing. Draco kept hitting her spoon away whenever she went for a scoop and crying ‘fight me Granger’!  
“Did I ever tell you the story of the time I got arrested,” he asked, taking another spoonful of ice cream.  
“No!,” she exclaimed.  
“You’re going to like it, I’m extremely humiliated in it,” he dryly said. “Soon after we graduated I participated in this experimental art show. I actually volunteered as a model.”  
“Noooo,” she said, trying to stifled her giggles.   
“After that experienceI I actually vowed to never model again, but I have made an exception for you.”  
“I would hope while modelling for me, you wouldn’t do anything that would get you arrested!”  
“It depends what,” he shrugged, “I have this sex toy that is illegal in England, if we use that-“  
“Draco!”  
He laughed. “Fine, I’ll get on with the story. It was the first day of the show. Now imagine, I arrived a fresh faced innocent of twenty two-“  
“You were hardly an innocent at twenty two!”  
“I was more innocent than I am now. Anyway, I arrived. Expecting some sort of life modelling, perhaps a little flash of the goodies. Therefore I wasn’t too worried when they stripped me down.”  
“To your birthday suit,” she interrupted.  
“I was as naked as the day I was born. Not that I remained naked for long on the day I was born. Us upper classes can’t deal with nudity for too long. But, at this show I was utterly naked and standing awkwardly in front of a blank wall. Then this bird comes out, saying that she’s the artist. And she gets out a bucket, I joke not a bucket, of red paint and throws the whole lot at me.”  
Hermione was in stitches now, holding onto the table top for support.   
“Well I’m out there like a fucking shot,” Draco continued, smiling at her reaction. “And I’m running round London covered in red paint with my tackle bouncing everywhere! I think the only reason I wasn’t arrested earlier for public indecency, was that the paint was drying so thick that you couldn’t actually make out any of my details!” He stopped, and looked very seriously at her, “Granger. My hair was ginger. Fucking ginger for weeks! I couldn’t leave my flat. A Malfoy with orange hair!”  
“Oh my god, you must have looked such a sight,” she said, tears rolling down her hot cheeks.   
“Ha! And the places I found the paint! Don’t get me started on crevices! Anyhow, back to the story. I was running around London, basically blind because the paint had dried my eyelashes shut together, and I somehow ended up in Knightsbridge. And there are all these tourists! And they’re all staring in shock at me, all too stunned, thank god, to snap a photo of me. But then I’m tackled to the ground!  
“By who?”  
“Bloody Harrods’s security. I’ve got these three massive blokes pressing me to the pavement. They thought I’d killed someone, and that the paint was my victim’s blood! Then the police arrived. Well they took one look at me and slapped the irons on. It took hours of explaining!”  
“How did you persuade them you we’re innocent?”  
“I had to wait for them to send off the paint sample to get forensically tested. Although it was pretty obvious to everyone, by then, I was just an unlucky chump. Oddly enough I didn’t bother going back to the gallery. Fuck experimental art after that!” He pushed her spoon away again with a clink, getting the last little bit of gelato. “Only upside is that I did get the number of the custody officer. She admired my fortitude greatly.”  
There was a stitch in her side by she managed to choke out, “How did I not hear about this at the time!”  
“No one on the streets identified me, the one useful bit of being covered in paint. But a reported did come round to my flat. She found out my address from that wretched gallery.”  
“Then why didn’t they report it?”  
“I bribed her in return for her silence.”  
Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him, dubiously. “You slept with her didn’t you.”  
“Just a bit,” he admitted, “I’m not that ashamed. The price of her silence was worth it.”  
“You’re such a tart Draco Malfoy!”  
“Tart with a heart, dear.” He waved a hand and signalled a passing waiter. “Why don’t we get the check and then I can show you how much of a tart I can be?” He said, pressing her hand to his mouth.

Hermione was almost getting used to waking up in Malfoy’s bed. She stretched out her bare arms over the fluffy mattress, but she didn’t feel his body. She smiled contentedly, he’d probably just gone down to breakfast.   
She quickly dressed and padded out of the room, on the hunt for food. Only Dumbledore was in the dining room, dipping apple slices into an egg. She wouldn’t ever quite understand his food choices.   
“Good morning,” she said, cheerfully, “where are the boys?”  
“They have started early on the painting,” Dumbledore explained, “Mr Malfoy mentioned something about making up for lost time.”  
She sat down opposite Dumbledore and pulled the toast rack towards her. “I’ll go and check up on them later.”  
“That reminds me, a envelope arrive for you by courier this morning.”  
“Humm, must be from Sirius,” she speculated, buttering the toast.  
“It’s on the hall table whenever you want it,” Dumbledore said.  
Hermione checked her watch. It was already half past nine. Sirius must be in the office by now, and if he’d sent the document by special delivery then it had to be important.  
“Excuse me, I’d better go and look at it now. Just incase it is urgent,” she said to Dumbledore and quickly left the room.   
The envelope was large and surprisingly thick. She slipped a finger under the flap and ran it along, jaggedly opening the envelope. She pulled out the contents and was surprised at the glossy feel of the paper. Her eyes scanned the front of a shiny magazine. She dropped the envelope and it fluttered to the cold stone floor.   
The magazine covered read: ’Whose been a bad boy: Draco Malfoy, two women in one city on one night! Read more from Rita Skeeter on Page 3’. Underneath the caption were two photographs, one of her and Draco kissing at the restaurant and the other was of Draco embracing Astoria Greengrass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the hits and kudos!
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Hermione dropped the magazine and it joined the envelope on the floor with a thump. Her hands went up to her face and covered her mouth. She could feel her eyes prickle, that familiar feeling of impending tears. Keeping one hand over her mouth, she bent and picked up the fallen magazine.   
She swiped it open to page 3 and read Skeeter’s article. ‘Draco Malfoy, London’s new nudist artist, has been spotted in the South of France getting cosy with two women on the same night. The first girl is the beauty Astoria Greengrass, Draco’s ex-girlfriend. The other woman is his manager, Hermione Granger. Talk about unprofessionalism in the work place! Draco, an infamous bad boy, is snapped first with Miss Greengrass outside a jewellery shop where he’s holding a small bag with the jeweller’s logo on it. Could there be wedding bells in the air? But later, when he’s with Ms Granger there is no bag to be seen. Did Draco give his lover Astoria a gift of his affections? Is it really all over between Draco and Astoria? And what will happen to the plain Jane, Miss Granger?…’  
Hermione snapped magazine closed; she could guess what the rest of the article would say. She was practically able to hear Rita cackling laughter at her humiliation. Because, of course, it had to have been Rita who sent this filth to her. But why was Draco with Astoria? It surly couldn’t have been an innocent embrace, otherwise why didn’t he mention it last night. 

Hermione strode to the ballroom, twisting the magazine in her hands as she went, like she was trying to strangle the words from the page.  
“Malfoy!” She yelled.   
Draco turned and smiled at her. But his face dropped when he saw her enraged expression.  
“What’s wrong?” He asked, putting his paintbrush down.   
He looked so angelic standing there with his paint stained hands, silhouetted by his beautiful painting.   
She didn’t say anything, but tossed the magazine at him. He caught the slippery publication and looked at it. His eyes went as wide as saucers, as he look at the front cover.  
“What the fuck did you do Malfoy,” she shouted again, balling her now empty hands into fists.   
Oliver was looking from her to Malfoy in utter confusion, his head nodding like a spectator at Wimbledon.   
“Hermione, this isn’t true,” Draco said, walking towards her.   
“Don’t touch me.”  
Draco immediately stopped advancing and stood still, looking like she’d slapped him. “Hermione I am not seeing Astoria. It was a coincidence-“  
“Like hell that was a coincidence!” She exclaimed and pointed at the magazine in his hands.  
“Look, why don’t we discuss this in the hall,” said Draco, trying to be reasonable.  
“No, everything that you have to say can be said in public. That’s how you conduct the rest of your relationships.”   
“Hermione, you and me, it’s not like anyone before-“  
“And all that rubbish yesterday at the Abby? Why bother spouting all that romantic bull at me, I’d already slept with you!”   
“I meant what I said yesterday, I want to be with you,” he was also shouting now.   
“Where is the bag? The jewellery bag?” She played the trump card.  
She swore that just for a second a flash of guilt passed across his face.  
“I don’t have it,” he said.  
“So you did give it to her?”  
“Yes, but not as a gift. I needed her to keep it safe and bring it back to London-“  
“That’s utter crap Malfoy.”  
“What is utter crap is this shit Rita’s come up with. You know she hates both of us. Why are you believing her?” Draco said, his grey eyes flashing like lighting.   
Hermione’s own eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “ You were right Malfoy,” she coldly admitted, "I did end up making a fool of myself over a man. Just the wrong one.” She fled from the room before Draco could stop her. She heard Oliver’s voice call out too Draco, telling him to let her cool off before he did something stupid, again. Well that’s what she’d do, go somewhere and cool off.   
Within ten minutes Hermione was in the hire car, racing up the chateau’s driveway and on the way to the airport.   
….  
The next morning, Hermione stumbled into the art gallery. Her eyes were rimmed with red and no amount of foundation could hide her blotchy cheeks. On hearing her come in, Sirius emerged from his office. He took in her awful appearance with one artful glance.   
“Hermione, why don’t you sit down?” Sirius suggested, “I’ll get you some tea.”  
“Not tea, just coffee. Black and bitter coffee,” she was going to add ‘like Draco Malfoy’s soul’ but decided that was too dramatic. Sirius raised an eyebrow at her as she slumped onto the gallery’s guest sofa, but he passed no comment and left to make her coffee.   
Hermione let her head fall into her hands. She could already feel the tears welling up, ready to spill out at the first provocation. Maybe coming into work had been a bad idea. She slept awfully, having gotten used to Draco’s presence at night. That Bastard, messing with her sleep as well as her heart.  
Sirius coughed, and she looked up from her hands. He was holding out a cup of coffee to her. She took the cup and balanced it on her knees. The sofa cushion sank slightly as Sirius sat down beside her.  
“Hermione?” Sirius asked, trying to get her attention which seemed to be solely focused on the cup, “Draco called me.”  
“He did?” She whispered, looking sharply up at Sirius. The movement caused the tears to spill from her eyes and drip down her face, leaving little tracks in her thick makeup.   
Sirius passed her his handkerchief, “I promise it’s clean.”  
She took it gratefully and wiped her tears and most of the makeup off her face. The once white handkerchief was now covered in orangey foundation and black mascara. “Can I keep this?” Hermione asked, giving Sirius a sheepish smile at having ruined the silk material.  
“You may,” he replied, smiling fondly at her. “About Draco’s call.”  
“Did he tell you everything?”   
“Mostly everything,” he said and drank from his own cup of coffee. “He wanted me to loan him some money for a plane ticket.”  
“But Draco has loads of cash?”  
“He apparently bought a rather large gift in France.”  
Hermione derisively snorted, “yes, I know all about that gift!”  
Sirius raised an eyebrow at her again. “Either way, I said no.”  
“You did?” She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about knowing that Draco had tried to come after her and hadn’t been able to.   
“Yes. I told him that you’d never forgive him if he didn’t finish the commission for Dumbledore.”  
Hermione said nothing, just once more looked down at the black coffee; which was so dark that it was staining the white porcelain of the inside of the cup. Sirius was right, she would have slapped Draco silly for dropping a contract over a girl. Even if the girl was her.   
“However,” Sirius checked the clock, “give or take two minutes and Draco will be here.”  
“What? But his flight isn’t till tomorrow.”  
“Hermione,” he gave her a reproachful look, “I am not utterly heartless, I booked him on an early flight the moment he confirmed that he’d finished the painting.”  
“Oh my god, but I look awful. He can’t see me like this!” Hermione gasped, rubbing the sodden handkerchief over her face again.   
Sirius examined her face. “You might want to nip to the ladies?” He advised, “you have some mascara,” he gestured to the whole of her face.  
“Shit!” She cried and legged it for the bathroom.

Hermione closed the bathroom door, firmly, behind her. She leant on the sink and looked up into the mirror. Sirius was being kind; she looked a total state. She would not have Draco see her like this, not after his apparent cheating with such a stunning woman as Astoria. ‘The bitch’, Hermione thought bitterly, ‘probably just had to roll out of bed and she’d look amazing’. Hermione washed her face, scrubbing vigorously till her skin was pink. She may look like a suckling pig, but at least her panda eyes had gone.   
From beyond the bathroom door, she heard the low rumbled of voices. Had Draco arrived?  
Her heart sped up and she felt like it might burst from her chest. Would she be able to face Draco and hear the cock and bull story that he’d come up with to explain his actions? Could she perhaps just live in this bathroom from now on? 

There was a knock on the bathroom door, three sharp raps.   
“Hermione?” Draco called, “can you come out now?” He sounded calm, and like he hadn’t just traveled hundreds of miles to see her.   
She laid her hand on the door handle and open it a little bit. From the open slither, she could see Draco and he was smiling like the past day had been some sort of joke. She was tempted to slam the door in his face, but, as if he’s read her thoughts, he stuck his foot into the gap in the door.   
“Hermione, can you please come out and talk to me. I promise, I will make everything better.”  
“Why should I listen to anything you have to say?” She said back, defiantly, “I saw those photographs.”  
Draco sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I won’t deny I have been an in comparable assh-“  
“Ha, you’ve got that one right!” She said, and tried to shut his foot in the door.   
Draco winced in pain, but he put his shoulder to the door and stopped her from maiming him further. “I am trying to apologise and explain, will you do me the decency of coming out and not attacking me?” He exclaimed, the laughter was leaving his eyes and he was beginning to look irritated. Now he knew how it felt to deal with his immature provocations everyday for half a year.   
“Fine,” she shouted back and flung the door open. Draco stumbled in to the bathroom, he’d been leaning his weight on the door and had not expecting her to open it quite so suddenly. She gave him a wicked smile, but then remembered that her protective door block was gone. She tried to school her features into cool indifference.  
“Thank you for opening the door,” Draco said, tucking his hair behind his ear, “can you please come and talk outside now?”  
“Why can’t we talk here?”  
“Because I have someone with me who can explain everything,” Draco reassured.   
Despite her best intentions she was curious; who could he have found that could untangle the Gordian’s knot that he’d got them into?  
She gave him one final defiant stare and swept out of the bathroom and into the gallery. 

When Hermione saw who was waiting for her, standing gracefully beside Sirius, she immediately went to go back and hide in the bathroom. Only to smack right into Draco’s chest, her noses painfully squished against his firm muscles. He’d obviously anticipated her retreat.   
Draco quickly took hold of her arms, and whispered in her ear, “Come on Granger, just hear her out.”  
“You fucking bastard,” she harshly said, “I can’t believe you bought Astoria Greengrass here! You tricked me!”  
“Well how else was I going to get you to listen to her?” Draco said with an infuriating shrug. Looking over the top of her head, he sunnily called out to Astoria, “Hi, look whose come out of the bathroom to meet you?” To Hermione, he quickly muttered, “Play nice.”  
Draco towed her towards Sirius and Astoria. Sirius looked like he’d rather be doing anything else than be here, witnessing the crash and burn of Hermione Granger. Astoria gave her a worried smile, and a small wave. She was a tall, willowy woman, and was a good head taller than Hermione; but Hermione liked to think that, given her current mood, she could take Astoria in a fight.   
“Hermione would like to hear what you have to say Astoria,” Draco graciously said. He kept his hands on the top of Hermione’s arms, so he would be able to hold her back if she did decide to try and punch Astoria.  
“Hello Hermione,” Astoria greeted. Her voice was high and a little how Hermione imagined a cartoon mouse would speak. “Draco has told me so much about you.”  
Hermione just grunted in response.   
“She’s understandably a little tense right now,” Draco said, apologetically, to Astoria.  
“Of course,” Astoria said, awkwardly smiling at both of them. “Firstly, Draco and I are not seeing each other. Until the other day, I haven’t seen him in a year.”  
“But what about the article Rita wrote a few weeks ago, the one where you dubbed Draco a nudist?” Hermione asked her, indignantly.   
“My PA leaked that information to Rita,” Astoria explained. “I have never met Rita Skeeter in person. Actually that article caused a lot of problem for me. My current boyfriend, you see, had no idea I’d ever gone out with Draco. My boyfriend and I met when he bought one of Draco’s paintings of me and, well, I wasn’t exactly going to tell him that I’d been in a relationship with Draco at that time. So, when that beastly article was published, he was rather put out.”   
“See Hermione!” Draco interrupted, excitedly.  
“That still does not explain how you two miraculously met in a foreign country! Or that jewellery bag!” Hermione shouted up at Draco.  
“Astoria, please continue,” Draco said, completely ignoring Hermione’s complaint.  
“Umm,” Astoria hesitated, watching Hermione with some concern, “I often go to Narbonne, it’s sort of the unknown second French Rivera.”  
“It was actually Astoria who told me about Fontfroide Abby!” Draco said happily to Hermione.   
“Not that we ever went there together!” Astoria quickly clarified, noting Hermione’s murderous look at Draco’s last comment. Obviously, Astoria understood that the thought of your current lover romancing you in the same place as a previous lover would put any girl out. “So when I spotted Draco in Narbonne I wanted, of course, to say hello and explain that I hadn’t given that reporter any information on him.”  
“What about the jewellery?” Hermione asked Draco, between clenched teeth, “Sirius said you spent all your money on it.”  
“About that,” Astoria smiled and pulled a small bag out from her handbag. It was the same small bag from the photo.  
“So you did give it to her!” Hermione yelled.  
“No, no,” Astoria tried to reassure her, “only for safe keeping, so you wouldn’t find it.” She held out the bag to Draco, “why don’t you take it from here Draco.”

Draco released one of her arms and took the bag from Astoria. He was grinning like a loon at all three of them.   
Sirius seemed to get some unspoken cue, because he offered his arm to Astoria and said, “Would you like to come and get a drink with me, I know I need one now. Give these two some privacy.”   
“Yes!” Astoria said an practically grabbed Sirius’s arm, “I’d love to leave.”  
“Hermione,” Sirius addressed her, “why don’t you close the gallery for the rest of the day, have an unofficial holiday? But I will expect you in work, bright and early tomorrow morning.” They left, Astoria’s long legs practically running to get out of the gallery as quickly as possible.

Hermione turned to Draco, extreme violence on her mind. Draco wasn’t looking at her, he was fiddling with the bag and trying to extract something from it’s depths.   
“You know,” he commented to her, still messing with the bag, “for a girl who dumped me because I didn’t have any money, Astoria isn’t such a bad chap. She did me a real solid there.”  
“If you keep talk about Astoria Greengrass I will not be held accountable for my actions Draco Malfoy!" Hermione cursed, glaring daggers at his bent head.   
“And what actions you’re going to do to me Granger, when you see the present I’ve got for you,” he said, smirking at her furious expression. He’d dropped the empty bag on the floor and hid the contents behind his back.   
“What are you doing?” She asked, her voice getting higher as she became more exasperated with him.  
“Shut up for a minute Granger, I’m trying to do something romantic,” Draco said, and dropped to one knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! Thank you for the comments and kudos! Love seeing the hits go up, so great that people are following the story :D


	15. Chapter 15

“Shut up for a minute Granger, I’m trying to do something romantic,” Draco said, and dropped to one knee. “Hermione Jean Granger,” Draco pulled out a velvet box from behind his back, “will you marry me?” He opened the box and inside was the biggest diamond ring she’d ever seen.  
Her mouth fell open in complete shock.  
“Hermione,” Draco repeated, his smile a little strained now, “will you marry me?  
“I…I” she said, trying to come up with the right words, or word. “Draco, after that humiliation you just put me through are you really asking me to marry you?”  
“Yes I am truly asking you to marry me,” Draco stiffly said.  
“But this is the worst proposal ever! Where are my candles, where are my roses?” Hermione indignantly said. She wouldn’t deny that she slightly enjoyed the look of confusion on his face.   
“I didn’t have any money left for roses or candlelit dinners, because I was buying the biggest fucking ring I could find, you daft bint!” He crossly said, standing up and facing her. “Because I am a Malfoy and we always get the best and brightest things we can find. And you are the the best and brightest thing I’ve ever found, so will you please marry me?”  
“The best and brightest, really?” She softly asked, gazing up into his face.  
“Yes,” Draco agreed, taking her hand.  
“Ok,” she said and smiled, “do it again?”  
“Do what again?”  
“Propose to me.”  
“For god’s sake, I’ve proposed to you four times already!” Draco loudly moaned.  
“But do it again,” she pleaded, “I wasn’t fully in the moment the first time.”  
“Or the second time, or the third time,” he muttered, getting back onto one knee. He kept hold of her hand and in the other he held the open box. “Granger, the light of my life, the thorn in my well shaped backside, will you please marry me?”  
“Yes,” she said, and gave him a huge smile.  
“Finally,” Draco said with a sigh, and slipped the massive ring onto her fourth finger. Damn, she thought, that rock does looked pretty good.  
“But, I have to ask,” she said, her brows knitting again, “why go through all this trouble of giving the ring to Astoria? Why not just keep in on you?”  
“Ah, that is because you,” he tapped her nose, “my dear Granger, are incredibly inquisitive. Remember, you were staying in my room, wearing my clothes most of the time. Except for those times when you were wearing nothing. And if I’d suddenly said to you ‘oh by the way, don’t go into my suitcase anymore’, you’d have been ferreting around the moment my back was turned.”  
“You make me sound awful,” she chastised.   
“Not awful, but something of a literal menace. Plus, I was hardly going to deny myself the pleasure of seeing you roam around in my shirts, was I?”  
“I guess it would have been a difficult ring to hide, it is huge,” she said, and against her better nature, admired the glittering ring.  
“Do you want to compare it to something that is really huge?” Draco said and suggestively raised his eyebrows at her.  
“I guess Sirius did give me the day off, so I do have some time for size comparisons,” she coyly replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read the SEX SCENE, go to my profile and check out 'You Make Me Shiver and Shake: Chapter 15.5: The Make Up Sex


	16. Chapter 16 and Epilogue

“Oh my, Draco, I swear becoming my fiancee has just made you so much better in bed,” Hermione giggled, laying her head on his bare chest. Her eyes drifted up and followed the lazy arch of the fan, which was placed in the centre of her apartment’s high ceiling.   
“Am I going to have to buy you more expensive jewellery to get a compliment like that every time,” Draco drawled and lazily ran a hand along her arm till he caught her hand in his. He tilted her hand this way and that letting the light catch on the facets of the stone.   
“No, I think I’m satisfied for the moment.”  
“Satisfied, huh. Can I convince you to partake in a round two?” He asked and rubbed her knuckles coaxingly.   
“Oh no, you and I are going to have a chat about a dish best served cold,” Hermione said and tried to wave off his attentions.   
“What, like potato salad?” Draco asked, his hand stopping it’s descent towards her chest.  
“No, like revenge!” Hermione excitedly yelled and sat up, forcing Draco to scoot back to avoid her rogue elbow.   
“Watch it Granger!” Draco rebuked, protecting his ‘delicate’ parts with a hand, “I presume you want children!”  
“Revenge! Draco, I need revenge on her?”  
“Who?” Draco asked, a look of bemusement on his face.  
“Rita!”  
“Oh, but wouldn’t the best revenge just be living happy ever after,” Draco said placatingly and peppered kisses along the back of her shoulder.  
“No, you sap,” she scolded.  
“Ah fine,” Draco said, rubbing the back of his neck; he was now resigned to not having more sex, “I do have a couple of ideas for retribution.”  
“Really!” Hermione whooped, “tell me!”  
“Ok,” Draco said and rubbed his hands together like a magician, “listen closely and I will tell you all.”  
………  
Sirius gave them both a skeptical look and asked, “Are you sure that this is a good idea?”  
It was morning, Draco and her were standing in front of Sirius’s desk. Draco had come with her to propose the scheme to Sirius, and Hermione couldn’t deny she loved having him escort her to work.   
“It’s a perfect plan,” Hermione reassured Sirius, “thought up by my perfect fiancee.”  
“Please, don’t describe Draco in that way in front of me,” Sirius said with a wince. “We are, after all, still related.”  
“Come on Uncle Sirius,” Draco said, grinning, “get on the blower to the editor.”  
“I’d see it as a personal favour if you never referred to me as your ‘uncle’ again,” dryly replied Sirius. “But fine. I’ll make the call.”  
They both stared at him expectantly.  
“You’re not going to leave me alone until I’ve done this, are you?” Sirius moaned, but he picked up the receiver and dialled the number. He placed a smile on his face, as if forcing himself to be amiable to whoever picked up the other end of the phone.   
“Hello,” Sirius said into the phone, “I was wondering if I could speak to Mr Crouch, the editor of The Daily Prophet.” He paused, listening to the reply. “Me, well I’m Sirius Black. He’ll know who I am.”   
Sirius glared at Hermione and silent mouthed to her ‘You owe me’. She just beamed at him in response.   
She heard a man’s muffled voice talking from the phone, and Sirius put on his fake smile again. “Barty, old man, how’ve you been?” Sirius replied to the man, “I’ve got a bit of a problem, one of your reporters has been causing a bit of trouble for my client.” Sirius paused, “I’m well aware it’s legal to publish speculation. But I have a deal to offer you. In return for a retraction and apology, I’ll give you exclusive access to the Malfoy Granger wedding,” Sirius listened to the answer. “Yes, that is Lucius Malfoy’s son. You can imagine how much that article scuppered things up for the poor boy’s proposal.”  
Hermione snorted and whispered to Draco, “Poor boy indeed.”  
“Ha,” he quietly replied, “good thing that my father’s name can still do me a favour without knowing it.”  
“Now Barty,” Sirius charmingly said to the man on the phone, “I have another sweetener to offer. As well as exclusive coverage of their wedding, Malfoy Jr also wants to invite Rita to model in a piece of ‘experiment art’. You know mend the bond, extend the hand of friendship so to speak. How does that sound?” He stopped to listened, until his mouth broke into the first genuine smile, “Excellent, I shall look forward to reading the retraction in tomorrow’s publication.” He put the phone down. To Hermione and Draco, he said, “we are going to get into so much trouble over this.”  
Draco wrapped an arm round Hermione’s shoulders and squeezed. “Isn’t it going to be so much fun though.”   
………………

A week later and their plan was set. Sirius hired a contemporary art space in central London. A big blank room, perfect for filling with cameras, people and Rita. Hermione spent an afternoon sending out last minute invitations to colleagues and contemporary artists, welcoming them to Draco’s impromptu ‘experimental’ art show. She’d gotten quite a good response. Draco’s fame had rocketed over the past few months and with his recent commission by Dumbledore under his belt, he was well on his way to becoming a house hold name.   
“Draco,” Hermione called from the back of the room  
“Yes my love,” Draco asked, walking over to her, “why are you hiding all the way back here. I’m doing this for you and I want you to have a good view.”  
“I don’t want to spook her, I think my smile might give the game away,” she explained.  
Draco surveyed her, “I do rather see what you mean. You look like a dog who has spotted a rather juicy steak-“  
“What is it with you and these dog comparisons?” She snapped, folding her arms.  
“I really love dogs, and I really love you,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.  
She gave him a look and the look might have evolved into a scolding, if Rita hadn’t chosen that moment to swan into the gallery.   
“I’d better go,” Draco said and rushed off, dodging between the crowd to greet Rita.   
Hermione watched Draco charm Rita, he kissed her hand and, she was sure, he was uttering a load of false compliments to her as he chivied her towards the prepared space. They’d decked the gallery in plastic sheeting and propped one large canvas against a wall. If it wasn’t for the buzzing crowd, it would have looked like a potential murder scene.   
She spotted Oliver by the canvas. His back was to the approaching Rita and he was fiddling with paints. It had been Hermione’s idea to ask Oliver to pose as an assistant for the day. He’d seen first hand how much Rita’s article had upset her. Oliver was now filling a large bucket with acid green paint, several empty tubes already lay around him.   
There was the flash of occasional cameras and the quiet chatter of the crowded. Draco kept talking to Rita, his hands moving energetically, as he described his ‘dream’ for her as a model. Even above the heads’ of the crowd, Rita’s shrill voice was clear.   
“Don’t I need to change?” Rita asked Draco, looking round at all the plastic sheeting.   
“Oh no, you’re fine as you are,” Draco reassured, taking her hand and positioning Rita in front of the white canvas, “I’m aiming for the natural, the everyday easy of Rita.”  
“I do have an instinct for beauty,” Rita boosted, and stuck her arms into a stiff pose.  
“Perfect!” Draco gushed, “You look like a vision.”  
Hermione felt that, Draco might be pushing it with ‘vision’, but Rita just seemed to preen more from his words. 

“Right,” Draco said, clapping his hands together, “shall we start? Oliver, my materials please.”  
Oliver hefted the very full and heavy bucket and passed it to Draco.  
“My god, this weighs a ton,” Draco said, staggering under the weight.  
“I can tell you’ve not been doing your arm exercises Draco,” Oliver commented with a smile. “Do you need any help?” He offered.  
“No, no,’ Draco said, stumbling around, “it won’t be heavy for much longer.”  
“What exactly is this experimental art going to be?” Rita asked, her tone concerned. Her eyes following the sway of the full bucket.   
“Don’t worry. I’m not putting you through anything I haven’t already been through,” Draco said and threw the paint at her. 

There was a silence. The silence you get when a crowd of people can’t quite believe their eyes. Then Rita gave a scream, like the bowels of hell had opened. The scream was somewhat stifled and ruined by the fact that paint than dribbled off her nose and into a her gaping mouth.   
“This,” Draco said, addressing the astonished crowd in a commanding voice, “is experimental art. Behold!”  
Rita front was absolutely covered in bright green paint. Her hair had finally been conquered by gravity, as the sheer weight of the mass of paint had caused her curls to flop around her face like stringy snakes. Behind her motionless body, the canvas was covered in splatters of paint and only a Rita’s shaped silhouette remained white.   
With a rush, the crowd awoke from their stupor. Camera’s flashed, there were gasps of amazement and then the laughter started.   
With sticky fingers Rita removed her glasses, revealing her outraged eyes. “You!” Rita screamed, silencing the crowd once more, and she lifted one soggy arm to point straight at Draco.  
Oliver nudged Draco and said, “Run for it mate.”   
Draco looked from crowd to Rita and took in her godlike wrath. Then he legged it out the Gallery and onto the busy London streets.   
“Get back here!” Rita howled and ran after him. An impressive feat, for a woman in three inch heels.   
Oliver sauntered over to Hermione. “You know, Draco must really love you. I don’t know many men who would willingly let themselves be chased through London by an enraged green reporter.”  
“It’s ok, he’s run through London naked before,” Hermione said with a nonchalant shrug, “This is a walk in the park in comparison.”   
Oliver grinned at her and they both started to laugh.

…………………  
Epilogue: 6 Months Later

“Granger,” Draco growled, “You’re perving at Oliver’s wood again.”   
“It’s art darling, you can’t be a pervert in art,” Hermione said sweetly, as she prepared her own paints.   
“Who came up with that rubbish,” Draco said, applying his brush to the canvas again.  
“I’m fairly sure that rubbish spouted from you,” Oliver added with a smile. He was standing in the centre of the room, his hand raised towards the heavens in a hero like pose. He was also starkers.   
“Don’t move Wood,” Draco said, glaring at Oliver, “Models are meant to be seen and not heard.”   
“Hermione, give your husband a clip round the ear for me,” Oliver pleaded to her.   
“After I’ve mixed my paints, I’ll come and give Draco what for,” she reassured.   
“Kinky,” Draco dryly commented, and dropped his brush into a water pot. “Alright Wood, we’ll take five. I need to get a beating from my wife.”   
“God, let me get out of ear shot first before you two start with the dirty talk,” Oliver said, grabbing his robe and sliding it over his body. 

“Now Granger,” Draco said, walking over to her part of the studio and slipping his arm around her now protruding belly, “what portrait are you working on today.”   
“A new girl,” she replied, picking up a tube of Winsor Violet and examining it.  
“I still can’t believe that Dumbledore commissioned you to paint nude women, while I’m stuck painting naked Oliver!” Draco grumbled. He rested his head on her shoulder and watched her prepare her paints.   
“It’s not my fault you ended up looking so feminine in my painting of you. Dumbledore obviously thought I was the better artist to commission to paint woman,” Hermione said. “You should have cut your hair.”  
“You like my hair,” Draco growled and kissed her exposed neck.  
“I do, but it’s longer than mine now. And it gets everywhere. I swear if we got a cat, it would shed less than you.”  
“We’re not getting a cat. I cannot cope with a new born baby and a cat.”  
“You’ll cope fine,” she reassured.   
Draco paused, his mouth inches from her neck. “This is a done deal isn’t it?” He asked, suspiciously. “I’m going to go home tonight and find a cat, aren’t I?”  
“He’s very sweet,” Hermione cooed, turning so that her chest was seductively pressed into his body. Or it would have been, but her belly got in the way.  
“You are something else Granger,” he muttered, scowling at her.  
“I promise I will make it up to you,” she said, running a hand up his chest to cup his face.  
“You’d better,” Draco said, his expression softening, “Every bloody night.”  
“Uh huh, whatever you say Draco.”  
Draco groaned and swept her mouth up into a kiss. His hands crept round her waist and settled on her lower back, her very lower back.  
Hermione squeaked as he pitched her backside. “Draco!”   
“What,” he said innocently, “I’m appreciating my wife.”  
“Appreciating a bit too much!”  
“Never too much,” he winked at her. 

There was a knock at the studio door.   
“Ah that will be Lavender,” Hermione said and slipped out of Draco’s embrace. “Oliver,” she called out, “would you get the door? I can’t move so fast any more.”  
“Sure thing Hermione,” Oliver said, emerging from the studio’s small kitchenette. Oliver raced to the door and opened it. And then he froze.   
“Oliver, everything alright?” Hermione asked, waddling over to the door.  
“Yes…yes… everything is fine,” Oliver stammered. His eyes were fixed on the girl waiting outside.   
“Lavender,” Hermione greeted, “so pleased to meet you. Do come in?”  
“Thank you,” Lavender softly said and smiled.   
“Oliver,” Hermione poked him in the shoulder, “would you move so Lavender can come in?”  
Oliver seemed to wake from a trance, he jumped and quickly stepped back clearing the doorway. “Sorry,” he uttered.   
Hermione gave him a perplexed look as he hurried off towards Draco. She wondered what was the matter with him?  
“That was Oliver,” Hermione explained to Lavender, “he’s not normally like that. He must be feeling a bit off.”  
“Oh that’s quite alright,” Lavender breathily said, “he’s got lovely shoulders, hasn’t he?”  
Hermione looked at Lavender, the girl’s eyes were following Oliver’s retreating figure.   
“Sure,” Hermione said, “he’s my husband’s model. Over there,” she pointed to the door next to the kitchen, “is a changing room, do you want to get ready?”  
“Of course,” the girl said, a soppy smile on her pretty face.

Hermione walked back to where Draco and Oliver were talking. She wondered what was wrong with this new girl, she seemed a bit out of it. As she approached, she caught the end of Draco and Oliver’s conversation.   
“Draco, you’ve got to help me,” Oliver said, looking pained.  
“What’s wrong?” Draco questioned.  
“What, what do you do when Hermione was painting you and you got a - well you know,” and Oliver whispered something in Draco’s ear.  
Draco’s eyes widened. “Normally we’d have sex if that happened.” He gave a wry grin, “we had a lot of sex."  
“But what if that wasn’t an option. What would you do then?” Oliver asked.   
“You mean you’ve got a-” Draco said, nodding downwards.  
“Yes!”   
“Oh, that’s awkward. I mean I know we’re close Oliver, but we’re not that close.”  
Both men shuddered.   
“Tell you what,” Draco said, “phone your dentist.”  
“What!” Oliver cried, looking disgustedly at Draco.  
“Not like that!” Draco quickly reassured, “I mean, make a dentist appointment. I know the idea of a balding man bending over me and prodding at my mouth with sharp instruments isn’t one I’d get aroused over. Well, unless you’re into that sort of thing?” Draco added and smirked.   
“God no! But good idea, I’ll go and book myself in for a root canal surgery,” Oliver said and hurried off in the direction of the door. 

“What in the world was all that about,” Hermione said to Draco.  
“I think,” Draco said, pulling her closer, “Our little Oliver has got a crush on the new girl.”  
“Really? Oh, that would explain his weird behaviour.” Then it clicked with Hermione. “You know,” she said excitedly to Draco, “I think she likes him too. We could play matchmaker-“  
“No Hermione. The last thing we need is our models trying to shag each other when we’re trying to paint them!”  
“Spoil sport,” she grumbled. “I guess I won’t be needing these anymore.” She gestured to the box of cream cakes lying beside her paints.   
“Why?” Draco asked, confused.  
“Well I’ve been trying to get my models to look more passionate and sexy looking-“  
“Hermione, if you needed help with that you only had to ask,” Draco said, winking at her.  
“Shut up you,” she replied and swatted his arm. “Anyway, I had a brilliant idea. Well you know most of these girls are half starved, and I thought if I tempted them with chocolate eclairs then I might get that longing look in their eyes that I wanted.”  
“Got you.”  
“But I guess Lavender will be pulling that look, anyhow, in Oliver’s direction,” Hermione said with a sad shrug.  
“No worries Granger, I’ll take care of this little problem for you.” Draco grabbed the box, opened it and shoved half an eclair into his mouth. “Yummy,” he said, between creamy mouthfuls. “Here,” he fed her the other half of the cake, “you need fattening up. You’re eating for two now.”  
“Perhaps three,” she said, beaming at him.  
He gave her a look of awe. “So we’re getting a cat and a baby and another baby. We are going to have a very full house.”   
And they smiled at each other. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who had read this story, commented, followed and left kudos. Please, check out my profile soon for more Draco goodness 
> 
> This story is dedicated to Jenny

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the Characters.


End file.
